He moved cautiously, grateful that the sound of the train would now cover his movements. A moment later he had the brief open and was squinting at a sheaf of papers inside. It appeared to be a long list of names, perhaps a passenger manifest or troop roster, but he could see no information to indicate what day it might be. He shuffled through the papers, noting a series of ink check marks next to a few of the names. The Colonel had been going over the list, and picking out certain individuals—all Arabic. He was just about to give up his quest when his eye fell on a name that shook him with its importance: Masaui! He looked closely and saw that the ink pen had started to scratch a mark there, but had failed. Masaui was on this train. He was here, and the Colonel was just about to mark off his name when the guards interrupted him.
He considered his situation, struggling to remember the long discussion he had with Maeve about the three trains. The first train was irrelevant, they had concluded. The second train, the one Lawrence blew up in his time line, was the key. That was the doom they were struggling to overturn. If that train passed unhindered they hoped it would be enough to alter the fate of Masaui. The first train took them by surprise, he remembered. It came from the north in the early morning and they did not see it in the rain and mist. The second train came at mid-day—from the south! The Colonel said this train was heading for Damascus. Yes, he had threatened to drop him off for a session with the Bey when they reached Deraa, not far north of Kilometer 172 where Lawrence was planning his raid.
He knew at once that he was on the second train, and Masaui was here with him, perhaps a passenger or even a Turkish soldier. Lord, thought Paul, he might be one of the guards right outside this door for all I know. He thought the better of that, for if Masaui was here, and his doom was death in Lawrence’s attack, then he must be farther forward on the train. The rear coaches were always the safest because the raiders primary intent was to destroy the valuable engines.
As he considered the situation a great doubt began to settle on him. The names on the list he had found cast a shadow on his thinking. What if they were to be selected out for some reason, and possibly assigned elsewhere; even put off the train? There were depot stations every twenty kilometers along the rail line. It appeared that Masaui had been intended for inclusion in the group, but his name was not clearly marked. What if this selection ended up saving these men from whatever fate this train was to suffer in the hours ahead? It would be a simple matter to mark the name. Could the simple stroke of an ink pen be a lever strong enough to move distant events in the future? He realized he could never be sure. He was muddling about, uncertain of what to do. Nordhausen was right: they could have researched this mission for months before having any chance at understanding the immensely complex relationships that drove the continuum forward.
How could he possibly intervene on Masaui’s behalf? What was he to do, burst out and shout the man’s name in the hopes he would turn his head with sudden recognition? Even if he did find him, what could he say that the man would understand? What could he do? Suppose he succeeded, and then found that Masaui needed to die here today instead? This simple black and white was suddenly marred by muddying shades of gray, confusing him even more.
No, if he was to do anything at all it must be something to spare this train. He had to rely on the single important clue in the note they found—Kilometer 172. He discarded his worry that the selection on the roster might be something that would spare Masaui. The clue from the coat pocket of the future was very pointed. If Masaui was here, then he was fated to arrive at Kilometer 172. But what should he do? Should he warn the Turks that Arabs were lying in wait for them at Minifir? If he did that he risked exposing Lawrence to unacceptable danger. His mind wrestled with the problem. He was on the second train; heading north. This must be the dawn of November 10th, he thought.
He tried to remember things that Nordhausen had told him about the history. By now Lawrence and his men would be waiting at Minifir, and the last of the gelatine charges would be laid under a low arch over a defile at the base of that hill. It was probably six or seven in the morning now, and this train was somewhere north of Amman, heading for a fateful rendezvous at mid-day. He had about six hours then, another cruel six hour interval where he could act to do something to spare this train. If he could manage it somehow, and survive, the final fail-safe retraction scheme should pull him out.
Where was Nordhausen? What was he doing? Was he here on this temporal reference point, or still trapped in the late Cretaceous? Something told him that Nordhausen had shifted forward in time as well. He’s probably doing the same thing I am, thought Paul, just trying to figure out where he is and decide what to do about it. One of us, he knew, has to succeed.
20
“What’s wrong, Maeve?” Kelly was up from his chair, moving quickly to Maeve’s side where she stood near the desk. Her hand was shaking and she seemed distraught, as though struck by some traumatic realization. As Kelly reached her, she settled into a chair by the desk, pale and drawn. When she looked at him her eyes concealed something, yet he saw fear there, and concern.
“I’ll… I’ll be alright,” she said softly. “I guess this has all been a bit much for me. I’ve been up since eight AM yesterday, and trying to run on coffee. I get a bit shaky when I haven’t eaten, that’s all.”
“You sure?” He was not quite convinced.
“Really, I’ll be fine. I just needed to get off my feet for a few moments.”
Kelly waved his hands about slowly, as if to test the air around her. “You aren’t planning to go and vanish on me now, are you?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” she said.
“Well, there’s bound to be something to eat around here. Where’s Jen?”
“You sent her down stairs to see about the power.”
“Yes…” Kelly’s attention drifted and his gaze was pulled to the main console again. He looked at the clock. “Shouldn’t be long now. I hope that power is stable. The city is going to hate us tomorrow, but I’m going to leave the outside taps in place until we complete the retraction sequence. Can you hang on for a few minutes? Then we can all celebrate and go out and get a big breakfast somewhere.”
“Right…” She gave him a halfhearted smile as he slipped away with a backward glance in return. When she was certain he was safely preoccupied with his work on the operations boards her gaze wandered to the desk drawer where they had hidden Nordhausen’s copy of the Seven Pillars away. She was possessed with an almost irresistible urge to open the drawer. The answer to a question she had been silently asking herself all evening was right there, unless it was still too early. They should wait until four AM. That would be eleven minutes before the first waves were scheduled to hit on the coast near Cape Hatteras. The tsunami sequence would ripple down the Eastern Seaboard after that, and the time line would be so irrevocably damaged that it would become unchangeable.
The sense of anxiety that she felt was almost paralyzing. The second hands were ticking away, but the time seemed to slip by with agonizing slowness. She knew that Paul and Robert could be living out hours or days in the past, perhaps struggling for their very lives. All she had to do was wait another fifteen or twenty minutes, but it seemed an impossible burden. She started to reach for the drawer handle, then stopped herself, exerting all her willpower to suspend the motion of her hand. I can’t, she urged herself inwardly. I’ve just got to wait it out.