When the Colonel’s fingers tightened on Paul’s throat he had visions of Lawrence in Deraa, and a night of scalding torture at the hands of this man. Wasn’t that what he intended? He was going to take me to the Bey, perhaps the very same man Lawrence would meet next year when the Arab campaign came this far north again after Jerusalem fell. He gasped for his breath, desperately thinking what he should do. If I resist, he thought, the Colonel will undoubtedly ratchet up his administrations until the words are torn from me in agony. But if I were to tell him what he wants—to tell him the truth, he would not believe me.
It was a strange moment of humor, flashing through his mind in the flickering of a few seconds as he imagined the Colonel’s reaction when he burst out that he was come from the far future to look for a man named Masaui. Why? He did not know, though it was certainly a matter of life or death. If Masaui lived, then he must die—if he died, then he must live. He could not say any of that, for it would not ease his pain in the slightest to tell this man the truth. The only course, then, was to lie. But he had to lie convincingly, or the man was likely to keep digging, to keep choking, until the breath of life would be lost to them all.
What can I say that would be believable and yet not reveal anything that might cause havoc in the time line? His mind reached for any strand that might support him in the history, even as his hands tightened on the leather straps that bound him. He decided to chance something, his eyes signaling his submission more than anything else, as he could not speak with the Colonel’s hand tight on his throat.
“You wish to speak?” The Colonel’s had moved from his throat to grasp at his chin. “You wish to tell me why you are here now, and what mischief you plan?” He released Paul with a hard jolt, clearly disgusted. “A Turkish soldier would have endured much more. You Americans are weak.”
Paul choked, trying to clear his throat. “You would have your way in the end,” he croaked, his voice barely a whisper.
“That is so,” said the Colonel. He could see that Paul could barely speak, and poured a small measure of water into a cup, raising it to Paul’s lips to allow him a drink.
“Thank you,” Paul managed to get the words out.
“No, do not thank me. I am not gracious. Believe me, you will get far worse than that if you spin out lies. Now tell me: why are you here?”
Paul met the man’s eyes briefly, and ventured out onto the thin ice between them. “The bridge,” he said haltingly. Nordhausen had told him something about a bridge. Where was it? Yarmuk! Perhaps he could cover his retreat with a small cloak of truth after all. “They were going for the bridge at Yarmuk.”
“Yarmuk? The gorge near Tell el Shehab?”
“Yes,” Paul whispered. “It controls the rail line out of Deraa back of Turkish lines in front of Jerusalem. They were trying to choke your supply lines. I was to find the rail line and create a diversion here, so that Lawrence could pass west unhindered.”
“Ah… Lawrence! Yes, we have heard of him. He has been causing a great deal of trouble. So now the Americans think to get in on the act, do they?” He gave Paul a cruel look, his eyes searching him to ferret out any hint of deception. Paul only hoped that the information he revealed was not given too early. If Kelly had the shift coordinates right this time, the attempt must be underway now, or else it has already failed, he thought. In any case, the Colonel will have to send a telegraph to give warning of this, or at least try and get confirmation. Lawrence and his men cut the telegraph wires when they reached the rail line after fleeing from the bridge. The message would never get through, but the Colonel would try to send it just the same. It could buy him an interval of peace so he could gather his wits and figure a way out of this dilemma.
“There is something about you I do not like…” The Colonel let the words hang for a time, threatening. “You are no soldier, and you are no spy, yet you do the work of a spy just the same. You wear Arab robes badly, and British kit beneath—and yet you are neither. You are an American, you say, but I think there is something odd about you. Very odd….”
Paul averted his eyes, fearing to say more. The Colonel strode back and forth in front of him, then paused, leaning on the table as he stared at him. He picked up his coffee cup and took another long sip, savoring it as he came to some silent conclusion in his mind.
“I will see about this,” he said in a menacing tone. “It will be simple enough to determine the truth of this.” He was up and moving to the back of the small coach, reaching for a cord that dangled from the ceiling. A hard jerk set a bell clanging, and Paul realized that he must be summoning his guards again. The sound of boots crunching on the gravel of the rail bed came in hasty response.
The Colonel walked slowly to the door, his eyes on Paul, dark and hostile. The guards arrived and the Colonel spoke to them in the hard guttural of Turkish. Then he stepped through the entrance and was gone.
Paul was alone in the coach now, though he knew the Colonel must have posted the guards outside. The door was slightly ajar, and he could hear the men speaking in low voices, though he could not see them. He tried his bonds again, frustrated by the thick leather straps. He pulled hard, knowing it was probably futile, but was suddenly surprised that the strap gave way! The stitching on the loop of leather where the buckle was attached had come undone, and the strap slid open, releasing its tight grip on his hands. One of the guards outside must have heard him move, and the door squeaked open.
Paul froze, keeping his arms extended overhead and closing his eyes. He squinted and saw the silhouette of a man at the entrance against the early light of a gray morning. The man seemed to chortle to himself, then turned and went back down the steps, convinced that Paul was strung up for the Colonel’s pleasure and represented no threat. Undoubtedly, they had witnessed many such scenes before.
Paul’s arms ached, and he moved them ever so slowly, careful not to let the buckle clink on the metal bar. He extricated himself, realizing that it was dangerous to move at all. Still, he had to do something. He could not simply wait here until the Colonel returned with more questions. He swallowed hard, his throat still sore where the man had choked him before he was wise enough to speak. The early dawn was casting its dull, sallow light through a window at the far end of the coach. He considered trying to make for it, hoping his boots would not happen upon some loose floorboard and give his movement away.
At that moment there was a high pitched squeal from the front of the train. A subtle vibration told Paul that the engine was churning up again, making ready to resume the journey. There was a sound of footsteps on the outer landing, and Paul reached for the overhead bar again, extending his arms as before. To his surprise and relief the door was pulled shut, and he heard the sound of a bolt securing it from the outside. The train jolted, then began to move. For a time, at least, he was going to be locked away in the Colonel’s coach. The guards undoubtedly remained outside, riding on the outer porch.
He knew the Colonel would return in time. He probably went forward see about getting a telegraph sent. The train started to move again, and he was stranded somewhere along the line, probably angry at the engineer. Paul knew that he didn’t have much time. If the Colonel boarded another car, he might have a brief interval of peace, but if he was still outside on the rail bed it would be a simple matter to wait until his coach came up from behind so he could jump on board.
What day was it? That was the one burning question still in Paul’s mind. He had to locate himself on the continuum and determine what he might do. With no other recourse, he searched about, thinking he might find something to indicate the date. A convenient calendar was too much to hope for, but he soon spied a battered leather brief on the floor beside the desk where the Colonel had been sitting. Recollections of Maeve’s admonition to Nordhausen came to him again. She had warned him not to touch anything in Shakespeare’s office at the Globe, worried that he would do something to contaminate the time line. Paul had little choice, he knew. What harm could he do by inspecting the brief?