13:20 (GMT)
Thursday, September 19, 1940
St-Thomas Hospital, London
Nancy was reading the October 2012 edition of the International Defense Review magazine, half-sitting in her hospital bed, when someone knocked on the door. Hiding the magazine under her blanket, she called for her visitor to enter. One of the two military policemen assigned to protect her stuck his head in the doorway.
“Excuse me, maam. The American embassy major that was previously announced is here to see you.”
“Let him in, Corporal.”
The guard then stepped aside and let a tall, powerfully built American Army major in before closing the door behind him. They looked at each other in silence for a long moment, both appreciating what they saw. He finally smiled, showing his perfect teeth, and got close to her bed before offering his hand.
“Major Mike Crawford, Assistant U.S. Army Attaché.”
“Captain Nancy Laplante. Please don’t shake my hand too hard: my arms are still sore.”
His hands proved to be as soft and gentle as they looked strong.
“What can I do for you, Major?”
Nancy noticed that he had green eyes, like hers.
“Please call me Mike. Can I call you Nancy?”
He smiled when she nodded.
“Well, Nancy, as you may guess, I’m here because of this intelligence report from the Prime Minister’s Office we received this morning. Could I ask you a few questions about it?”
“You got the right person for that. Fire away!”
“Thanks. First, we at the embassy need to assess the accuracy of the information in that report, for obvious reasons.”
“I understand, Mike. I’m a reserve military intelligence officer: using information without checking its credibility would not be professional.”
“Well said! The problem is that the report was, let’s say, vague about the source. Could you tell me more about it?”
She was silent for a moment, which Mike Crawford used to scrutinize her closely: she had a resolute, intelligent face and a strong body. Her light hospital gown showed muscular arms and shoulders, like he had seen once on a female gymnast he had dated back in the States. She was tall, possibly close to six feet. Her large green eyes fascinated him. Those eyes suddenly looked straight at him with amusement: she had noticed his interest in her. He started to apologize bu she put an index on his lips, cutting him off.
“Mike, let’s make a deal: you can stare at me as long as you let me stare at you.”
“Why, this sounds fine to me, Nancy.”
“Good! To answer your previous question, I can’t divulge the source or its nature, but I can tell you that it has proved its accuracy many times already. In fact, I can give you an example of the type of information Hourglass has access to. Can you write this down?”
She handed him a sheet of paper and a pen that had been on her bedside table. She then resumed talking.
“A few months ago, President Roosevelt received a letter signed by a physicist, Albert Einstein, but initiated by another physicist, Leo Szilard. That letter requested your president’s support for a project to study the feasibility of producing a new type of bomb based on nuclear fission. The president agreed and ordered that project to be supported. Secretary of War Stimson knows about it. You can have this checked out through him.”
Mike looked at her with concern: if this verified out, that meant that this Athena also had wide access to American secrets.
“How much does this Athena knows about American affairs?”
“I can tell you that… AAAH!”
She suddenly tensed her body in apparent pain and lifted her left hand to her right shoulder.
“Cramp… in my back… help me change position, please!”
He held her forward and shifted the pillows behind her. He saw a muscle under her right shoulder blade pulsate frantically. As a serious football player, he had to deal with such cramps a lot in the past.
“Scapular muscle spasm. Let me massage it: I know about athletics first aid.”
She was in too much discomfort to argue. With his help, she turned on her belly while he partially opened the top rear of her hospital gown. He had to push away a magazine that had been under the blanket in the process. Mike’s eyes suddenly were stuck on the cover of that magazine and his face paled. A moan of pain from Nancy reminded him that he had to be careful not to raise her suspicions. He started massaging her back with one hand, the other turning down the magazine and pushing it under the blanket before joining in the massage work.
“Ooh, aah, that’s good! A little down, please. Yes, just there.”
“Your whole back is full of knots: you’ve been in this bed too long.”
“Tell that to the damn doctors. They won’t let me exercise. On the other hand, a thorough massage is a good alternative. Could you do me a favor?”
“Yes, what?”
His answer came out by itself, his mind still boiling about that magazine cover.
“Please don’t stop. And could you undo the back of my gown?”
That snapped him out momentarily of his thoughts. Pulling open her gown revealed firm but nicely shaped buttocks and long, muscular legs. He was shocked by the multiple scars of shrapnell wounds covering the back of her legs and arms, with a couple of wounds on her buttocks.
“My god! What happened to you?”
“I ran into two bullets and 27 mortar fragments while holding a beach party with the Germans near Dunkirk.”
“Some party! What were you doing there?”
She snapped her head to look at him.
“Meaning what was a woman doing into combat?” She said testily.
“No, no! Meaning what was your mission in France?”
Jesus, Mike thought, she sure wasn’t your typical housewife type.
“Oh, we were rescuing some of our pilots from the clutches of the Gestapo, which was torturing them to know how we learned about their planned raid on London. It went quite well.”
“Except for that?” He said while pointing at her wounds.
“Except for that, yes. They gave me a medal for it and now I’m supposed to be happy and content. I wish I could do my job instead of wasting my time here.”
Mike saw her uniform hanging from a hook, with three rows of medals on its front.
“May I look at your medals, Nancy?”
“Go ahead. The ten medals of the bottom rows are Canadian service nedals. The three of the top row are British ones.”
He had a short look at them and snapped his head towards her.
“YOU GOT THE VICTORIA CROSS?”
“You know, I think I’m going to hide that thing if everybody keeps reacting to it like this.”
“But, you should be proud of it.”
Her smile faded away and she stared at her pillow, sounding melancholic.
“I suppose I should, but I believe I shouldn’t be treated differently because of it: I was simply doing what needed to be done. Many others have done as much or more than me. I guess I would feel a lot better back home, doing my civilian job as a military affairs correspondent.”
“Where is your home?”
“In Boucherville, a small town on Montreal’s South Shore. It is a nice, quiet place with friendly people.”
Mike then decided to go for broke: he needed to know, for his peace of mind.
“Nancy, when is your home?”
She looked at him, completely stunned by his question.
“How…”
“…Do I know?” He completed for her. “I saw that magazine under the blanket. It is a fantastic explanation, but it would easily explain how you got such detailed information about everybody.”
She shook her head, angry with herself.
“DAMN, I’m getting careless! Alright, the British and the Germans know about me: you might as well join the club. I am from the year 2012, but I did not come by my own free will and have no way to go back to my time. Mike, please promise me that the British will not learn that you know about this. The Soviets also must be kept in the dark about me: the moment they know, my skin won’t be worth a damn.”
Overtaken by all this, Mike Crawford sat on the edge of her bed, caressing her back while he let his mind calm down.
“Nancy, would you mind telling me your story?”
Her smile came back then.
“On two conditions, Mike: first, I want you to handle personaly any liaison between me and your government.”
“Agreed! What’s the second condition?”
“You keep massaging me while I talk.”
09:03 (GMT)
Monday, September 23, 1940
St-Thomas Hospital, London
This morning was a good one for Nancy. The first good news was when her doctor signed her release papers. The second good news was brought by Jennifer Collins as Nancy was packing up her things. Having no other clothes with her at that time, she was back in dress uniform when the secretary showed up.
“Hi! I found a nice place for you in central London: you’re moving in today.”
“YES!”
Her grin suddenly faded as she looked at herself.
“But I got next to nothing to wear: I will need my belongings back from Northolt soon.”
Jennifer then had a malicious smile.
“I’ve got another surprise for you downstairs, Nancy. Let the guard bring your stuff down and follow me.”
The trio went down to the main entrance of the hospital fifteen minutes later. Nancy was happy to see that she could walk now without feeling pain at every step. She promised herself to get back in shape as soon as possible. A delighted scream greeted her as she exited the hospital.
“NANCY!”
“MEG! What are you doing here?”
Nancy and Megan Thomas hugged each other for a moment before Nancy’s eyes caught a familiar shape.
“My car! You brought it from Northolt?”
“That’s right, along with your belongings, all of them.”
The last part of her sentence sounded as if she was ready to pout. Nancy looked at her, not understanding what she meant. Megan then continued.
“Your television is in the car, too: Air Commodore Nichols nearly had the WAAFs riot on him when we took your stuff out of the lounge. By the way, we brought the transformer too: the base electrician wrote it off as unserviceable and beyond repair.”
“That’s really nice of you all. Give my thanks around when you return to Northolt.”
“I’ll do that. So, can I drive you to your new home? Your car is such fun to drive.”
“Please, be my guest, Megan.”
Helped by the guard, they loaded her bags in the already crowded rear compartment of the Mitsubishi OUTLANDER. When he tried to get in the car with them, Nancy flatly refused to let him in.
“I’m sorry, Corporal. I know that you have orders, but you would only attract attention to me now. Besides, I can take care of myself.”
She patted the pistol on her gun belt as she spoke. He could only salute her and watch as her car sped away. Another car parked nearby then left its spot, following the Mitsubishi Outlander.
“So, where is this new place of yours, Nancy?” Asked Meg while driving slowly towards Westminster Bridge.
“I don’t know yet. Jennifer?”
“It’s in St James district, number 24 St James Place.”
Meg then looked at Nancy with envy.
“You lucky you! It’s bordering Green Park, behind Buckingham Palace. How did you get an appartment in such a nice corner, Jennifer?”
“Oh, one of my aunts, who is a rich widower, owns the appartment block in question. It also happens that the previous occupant of your new apartment, a naval officer, died recently. He had no family, so the flat became available. That, plus the Prime Minister’s name thrown around, sealed the deal. It is on the first floor on the Southwest facade, overlooking Green Park. The building is an 18th century Georgian style town house. We have also rented a closed garage in Blue Ball Yard, near your street: your car is definitely too much of an eye-catcher.”
Crossing Westminster Bridge, they turned right on Horse Guards Road, driving alongside St James’s Park, then turned left on the Mall, still bordering the park. A right turn on Marlborough Road and they were soon looking at St James’s Palace. As they were about to turn on St James’s Place, Nancy, who was staring at everything along the way, suddenly told Meg to slown down at the corner with St James’s Street. She then craned her neck out, looking at a particular store on the corner. Meg and Jennifer looked at it too, intrigued by her interest in it.
“A gunsmith’s store!” Exclaimed Jennifer. “Why are you so interested in it?”
Meg answered for Nancy, a large grin on her face.
“You should see the arsenal she has in the back, particularly that hand cannon she used to capture two German pilots. I think she is somewhat of a gun nut.”
“Wrong, Meg: I am a gun nut.”
Turning the corner of the L-shaped dead end street, they finally stopped in front of a stone and brick, four storey building.
“Let’s go see my aunt and the caretaker before we unload your stuff, Nancy.”
To Jennifer’s disappointment, her aunt was out at the time, so they knocked on the caretaker’s door on the ground floor. A woman in her early thirties answered, with a little girl crowding in the doorway besides her.
“Hi, Madam Stanley. I have your new tenant for room eleven here, Nancy Laplante. She works like me at the Prime Minister’s Office.”
The woman and Nancy exchanged greetings, then went up to the first floor, the little girl still in tow. Nancy scratched her head playfully, rewarded by a giggle.
“What is her name, Madam Stanley?”
“Emily. She’s five years old and quite a bundle. I’m afraid that she is bored day long, with nearly all her friends having left the city because of the threat of German bombardments. My other child, Peter, is eight years old: he’s at school now. Do you like children?”
“I adore them. Maybe I will have something to cure her boredom this afternoon: I have as part of my belongings a home movie projector, with some nice films she should love.”
Joan Stanley looked delighted.
“That would be really nice of you. You’re sure this will not bother you?”
“Positive! Nothing makes me happier than a little kid’s smile.”
“Then we have a deal. Ah, here we are!”
She unlocked the door number eleven, pushing it open and inviting Nancy in. The apartment was furnished with conservative style but comfortable furniture and consisted of a good-sized lounge, one large bedroom with adjoining bathroom and a small kitchen. Nancy walked to the large patio doors of the lounge and opened them. Beyond was a small balcony overlooking Green Park, with Buckingham Palace visible to her left. She immediately felt good about the place.
“This is perfect. I will start moving my things in right away.”
“I can ask my husband to help you, Miss Laplante.”
“That would be appreciated, Madam: I’m afraid I’m still a bit weak after my stay in hospital.”
“Oh dear! Nothing too serious I hope?”
“I’m up and running, so it couldn’t be that bad. Let’s go down.”
Before leaving the apartment, Joan Stanley handed her a set of keys, along with a proposition.
“If you don’t want to have to cook, you can have your meals with us, as long as you tell me in advance. A couple of my tenants already follow this arrangement. If you’re interested, it will cost an extra two pounds per week.”
Nancy thought for a moment: she was going to be quite busy every day of the week and probably would have ended up constantly eating at restaurants or rushing through quick snacks.
“This would be of great help: I’m taking you on this offer.”
Jennifer stopped Nancy from taking out money to pay an advance, opening her own briefcase instead and giving an envelope to Joan Stanley.
“The Prime Minister’s Office will take care of the expenses, Madam. Here is the room and board amount for until New Year. I will contact you then.”
“Why, Jennifer, your people are treating me like royalty.” Exclaimed Nancy, embarrassed by so much attention. Jennifer smiled in response.
“For the person who saved this city from destruction, this is nothing indeed.”
With the help of Mister Stanley, her belongings were brought upstairs in less than fifteen minutes. After tipping the man, Nancy went with Meg and Jennifer to park her car at the Blue Ball Yard, an old horses barn on St James’s Street that had been converted into private garages. Nancy got the key to her stall from the owner, then came back to her new place on foot while Meg and Jennifer went away in a cab. On her way in, she stopped to browse in the gunsmith’s front window, finally deciding to go in. The ring of the doorbell made a man in his fifties appear from the back of the store.
“May I be of help, Miss?”
“I hope you can, sir. Do you reload cartridges in your shop?”
“Certainly, Miss. What calibre is it?”
“That could be a problem. It is a rare type of pistol calibre: .50 Action Express.”
The gunsmith thought for a moment.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know that type of ammunition. However, if you give me the precise specifications, plus both a live and a spent cartridge, I will probably be able to duplicate them.”
“Excellent! I will come back this afternoon with some cartridges.”
Nancy glanced around the weapons displayed in the shop but saw nothing of interest for her and went out. Looking at her watch, she found out that it was already 11:35 hours. Seeing the Stafford Hotel nearby, she went in and had a quick lunch at the hotel’s dining room. By now she was starting to be able to ignore the stares and whispers that her Victoria Cross ribbon on her chest caused around her. It was a relief for Nancy when, forty minutes later, she closed her appartment’s door and could take off her dress uniform at last.
Now in a loose fitting two-piece sports outfit, she spent the next hour arranging her things around the apartment. For discretion’s sake, her desktop computer went in her bedroom, with only her TV/VCR and her sound system to add a modern touch to the lounge. Finally satisfied with her work, Nancy took a sports bag and put in it her Desert Eagle pistol, along with two full magazines and three spare rounds. Her Glock 26 also went on her belt. Putting on a light goretex windbreaker that hid her pistol, Nancy then went downstairs and knocked at the Stanley’s door. Joan Stanley answered her after a few seconds.
“Ah, Miss Laplante! How is it going upstairs?”
“I’m finished unpacking, actually. I wanted to ask you at what times I should show up for meals.”
“Breakfast starts at 06:30 hours, lunch is at noon and supper is at six. Is this convenient for you, Miss?”
“It’s perfect, thank you. Another question, if I may: at what time could your two kids come up to watch a film?”
“Oh my goodness, you’re sure it’s no problem for you?”
“Absolutely not! It would make me very happy indeed.”
“In that case, I could bring them around four, after Peter returns from his school. Would that be convenient?”
“Yes! I will wait for them at four. In the meantime, I will go and walk around a bit to familiarize myself with the area. Goodbye!”
It was nice to walk around in a casual dress for once: nobody to stare at you and free to wander at will. Her first stop was at the gunsmith’s shop. The man’s eyes bulged when she handed him the three spare .50 calibre Action Express rounds.
“My god! What do you shoot them out of, Miss?”
“Out of this!” Answered Nancy, taking out her gold-plated and engraved Desert Eagle pistol, opening the chamber to show him it was not loaded and handing it to him so he could examine it. Another customer, a thin man in baggy civilian clothes, entered the store at that time. He stared for a moment at the huge pistol in the hands of the gunsmith but had the good taste not to bother them about it, browsing instead around the shop. After handling the Desert Eagle for a while, the gunsmith gave it back to Nancy.
“This must be the most beautiful weapon I have seen in a long time. It’s not for sale, by chance?”
“No way! I’m too proud of it to ever sell it away. So, do you think you can duplicate those cartridges?”
“I’m pretty sure that I can use old rifle cartridges and cut them down to the proper size. As for the powder charge, I will make sure to duplicate the exact same amount and type of powder. Come back in a week and I will be able to tell you more then. How many cartridges would you need anyway?”
“Let’s go for a first batch of fifty rounds. If I’m satisfied after test firing them, I will go for a much bigger batch, say five hundred.”
“Are you planning on a hunting trip, Miss?”
“To hunt Nazis, maybe. I owe them a few holes in my skin that I wouldn’t mind paying them back for.”
The gunsmith smiled sympathetically at her.
“I can understand that: I still have a few German shell fragments in my leg, souvenir of the 1914 war. You’re in the army, Miss?”
“Canadian Military Intelligence, actually. At least I can say that the Germans didn’t get me cheap.”
The gunsmith’s smile turned into a grin.
“Care to tell me the story, Miss?”
“Why not! It’s not as if the Germans don’t know about it: they were at the same beach party I was.”
Restricting herself only to the fight around the beach, Nancy talked for a few minutes, staying vague about the details. It felt good to talk to someone who could understand her experience in France. The gunsmith also seemed to be a nice man, with lots of interesting experiences of his own to tell. They ended up talking for nearly an hour, with only two interruptions to let the gunsmith take care of other customers. She finally left his shop at around two O’clock, dropping in for a few minutes at the locksmith’s shop next door, where she had her appartment and garage keys duplicated. The next hour was spent walking around, browsing at shop windows, buying a few items and admiring the architecture of St James District.
Once back at her apartment, Nancy took some time to check thoroughly the equipment she had brought with her on the commando raid on Gravelines. She felt relief when her electronics and weapons proved to be in good order: Doug Wilson had done a good job of cleaning them. Her body armor was another matter: the nylon carrier was full of holes and had a large rip in its back. Luckily enough, she still had the spare carrier she had brought back from her Afghanistan trip in 2012. She shivered in horror when she examined the front and back kevlar ballistic panels of her vest. What must have been the 7.92mm bullet that the doctor had taken out of her armor had ripped through a good two thirds of the kevlar layers in a spot level with her left lung on the back panel. It must have been a ricochet hit or a shot from afar, since her vest was not designed to stop a direct hit from such a calibre. It was now seriously weakened in that spot. Multiple indentations on the panels showed where more metal junk had hit. However, the kevlar had not been seriously damaged in those locations. Putting the kevlar panels inside the spare nylon carrier, she hung the vest in her bedroom closet and threw the old carrier in the kitchen’s garbage can.
She just had inserted a laser disk in her TV/DVD unit when someone knocked on her door. She looked through the peephole, smiled and unlocked the door.
“Hi, kids! Hi, Madam Stanley!”
“Hello Miss Laplante! Here they are! Peter, Emily, say hello to Miss Laplante.”
With grins on their faces, Emily and her big brother whispered a quick hello before rushing in the lounge.
“Something tells me that they are anxious to see that film.” Nancy remarked as both kids started munching on the plate of mixed nuts she had put on a low table in front of the main sofa. Joan Stanley rolled her eyes upward.
“Tell me about it! By the way, what kind of movie is it?”
“It’s the story of a little pig who wants to become a sheep keeper. They should love it.”
“Can I watch a little, if you don’t mind?”
“Of course, take a seat!”
Nancy then turned on her television and started the DVD unit. Her visitors were immediately impressed by the quality of the picture.
“Hey, it’s in color!” Yelled excitedly Peter.
“You don’t have color films in England yet?”
Nancy tried to bluff through that little forgotten detail: color pictures would not actually be widely available until after the war.
“My god, it’s of incredible quality, too. How can you project a movie inside a small box like this one?”
“Oh, it’s a brand new American system: it projects the film on a mirror inside, which reflects it on the inside surface of this glass screen.”
Nancy thought that the inventor of television must be spinning in his grave by now.
“Hey, it’s a brilliant idea! Oh, look, Emily: there`s the little pig!”
After about twenty minutes, Joan Stanley regretfully got up from the sofa, her eyes still riveted on the screen.
“Well, I’m afraid that I have to go and get supper ready. This is really nice. Do you have many movies that would be suitable for kids?”
Nancy had to think and review mentally the content of her video library.
“Well, apart from this one, I have four more films designed for kids: I’m still a small girl at heart. If you push the limits, I would say another eight or nine movies would be suitable, although not ideal for kids. The rest of my collection has scenes of violence or crude language suitable for adults only. I tell you what: whenever I have an afternoon off, I will tell you in advance so that your kids can come watch a film. Would you like that?”
Joan looked ecstatic.
“That would be marvelous. By the way, you are coming down for supper?”
“Of course! I will bring them down with me at that time.”
“Oh, thank you so much again.”
After locking the door, Nancy went to the sofa and sat between Emily and Peter to finish watching the adventures of Babe the little pig. The kids giggles and laughs proved to be the best therapy for her convalescence.
The first thing that Emily did when Nancy brought her and Peter down for supper was to ask a question to her mother, a hopeful smile on her face.
“Mommy, could we have a little pig in the house?”
Joan Stanley looked with mock anger at Nancy, who was now laughing hard.
“You see what you have done?”
She then crouched besides her little daughter.
“I’m sorry, Emily, but I’m afraid that pigs are not allowed in this building. I promise you that next time we visit Uncle Alfred’s farm you will be able to play with a little pig. Is that alright with you?”
As the disappointed Emily went to wash her hands before supper, Joan led Nancy to a huge kitchen with a large dining table in the middle. Two other persons were already sitting at the table, chatting and drinking beer. Nancy stopped dead in her track as she was crossing the doorway of the kitchen.
“MIKE! What are you doing here?”
Mike Crawford turned around in his chair and nearly spit out his beer when he saw Nancy.
“What are you doing here yourself?”
Nancy suddenly grinned as she realised the truth.
“Don’t tell me you are a tenant too?”
It was Mike’s turn to grin.
“I’ll be…! When did you move in?”
“This morning. How come you can afford such a nice place on a major’s salary?”
“Hey, I have diplomatic status: the embassy pays the rent. The American embassy is only half a mile away, so there are two attachés lodged here for convenience sake. The other is one of those typical foreign service bureaucrats, a real stiff ass type.”
The other man sitting at the table rose from his chair and shook Nancy’s hand.
“Daniel Adams, stiff ass bureaucrat, at your service, miss.”
“Nancy Laplante, northern neighbour presently attached to the Prime Minister’s Office.”
She didn’t see any reaction in Adam’s face to show her that he knew who she really was. Mike discreetly confirmed her impression by shaking his head left and right.
“So, Nancy, how come you can afford the rent here?” Asked Mike as she sat to his left.
“The Prime Minister’s Office pays for it. So we both live on the back of the taxpayers.”
Joan Stanley heard that as she was bringing in a steaming pot of soup.