The stranger eyed him suspiciously again, gesturing at his belt line. “Eftah,” he said, waving the pistol in his hand.
Nordhausen saw that he wanted him to open his robes. Cautious fellow, he thought, but he undid the sash and let the gown fall open, feeling a bit silly to be standing there in wet khaki trousers and a British officer’s uniform from the First World War. How will this help my story if I manage to get to the authorities? It occurred to him that Americans may not be particularly welcome here. The chaos of the Middle East in recent years had built up a tremendous resentment among common Muslims against the West, and America in particular. Most of the population of the region would be Jordanian Palestinians, and they were not very well disposed to foreigners. Old news stories of Western reporters and missionaries taken as hostages and brutally murdered came to mind, and he was suddenly very afraid, and angry again that no one had told him he would remain at the spatial coordinates of the drop site when they shifted home.
The man had a very different reaction to Nordhausen’s uniform, however. He stooped to have a closer look, noting the thick belt at Nordhausen’s waist, and the high, leather army boots.
“English?” The word was badly spoken, but Nordhausen understood it. He was momentarily taken by surprise. How would he come to that assessment, he wondered?
“Sadiq, English.” The man smiled at him and Nordhausen saw that he was missing one tooth. “Sadiq Aurens?”
Nordhausen caught the hint of a name the second time the man spoke the word. His mind whirled for a moment, remembering what Maeve had said about coming across local Arabs in the desert. It couldn’t be so, he thought, his eyes searching the horizon. The rain had stopped and the clouds parted to reveal a crescent moon in the sky, low on the horizon. It suddenly occurred to him that he should be seeing the glow of urban centers on the horizon as well. Even if he was in the desert, the light from major cities like Amman and others would still be visible, but all was pitch black.
“Good God,” he breathed. “What’s happened? Where am I?”
The stranger gave him an odd look. “Sadiq Aurens?”
The moon was wrong. It was full the night they went through the Arch. Something went wrong on the retraction! That thought jarred his thinking for a moment until he remembered what Paul had said about Kelly on the watch. ‘He’ll see what’s happened and make adjustments.’ What has Kelly done?
“Taa’la maei,” the man gestured toward the distant camp fire. He no longer brandished the gun but he was nonetheless insistent that the professor start moving as he indicated. Nordhausen started walking, and the man fell in at his side, just slightly behind, chattering away as they went. The professor didn’t understand anything he was saying, but occasionally the word ‘English’ or ‘Aurens’ would come through again. It dawned on him, with a sinking feeling, that he had not reached his own time after all. Kelly botched the retraction, he thought at first, but upon consideration he realized this was probably not the case. He made his adjustment, Nordhausen concluded. He made one last attempt at getting us to the right temporal coordinates. If he was anywhere close, I’m still nearly a hundred years in the past! The stranger didn’t react to the word American, but he immediately recognized my uniform as English. And he called me Aurens. He can’t possibly think I’m Lawrence of Arabia.
“Oh God,” Nordhausen breathed. Kelly had moved them forward in time to the right coordinates. He wasn’t home, as he first thought. He was back in the middle of the First World War. How did this happen? Paul said there were only two chances for retraction—one triggered to the target date, and the other some kind of fail-safe system they had programmed. Kelly must have used up one of his trump cards to get them back on target. The mission was on, then. He had an Arab in with him mouthing the word Aurens and the whole thing was still on. But would he ever make it home?
A sensation of real anxiety enfolded him as he realized the weight of the operation was descending heavily on his shoulders again. He wasn’t home. Now he had to figure out just exactly where he was. He had to find the rail line, and discover what day it was. He had to pick the right train and decide what to do about it. Paul said he and Maeve had the whole thing figured out, but they never had time to go over it with him. Oh God, he thought. I have to unravel all this mischief and save the world after all. I have to find Paul’s little Pushpin and figure out what to do. It was imperative. He whispered a silent invocation to any deity who would hear him, and hoped he would get it all right.
Part VI
Chance Meetings
“The nature of the Universe loves nothing so much as to change the things which are, and to make new things like them.”
“By wondrous accident perchance may one grope out a needle in a load of hay…”
16
Paul was wishing he was somewhere else. The leather thongs that bound his wrists were tight and painful, and the stern regard of the Turkish Colonel was beginning to unnerve him. At least he had put away the knife, though Paul did not hold out much hope for himself in this situation. The man had obviously concluded he was a spy, and he knew that a lengthy interrogation was probably in order for him now.
The Colonel took a long drag on his cigarette, studying Paul closely. “Not English, you say? You are certainly not an Arab. What mischief are you up to in the night? What are you doing here?”
Paul looked at him, unwilling to speak, but he could see that it would only be a matter of time if he resisted this man’s questions—and very painful time at that. He resolved to answer him, hoping to thread his way through the interrogation without saying anything too damaging. Perhaps he could plead that he was a non-combatant and invoke the Geneva convention as a shield. Then he realized that the convention had not even been adopted until well after this war. He would be at the mercy of this man, no matter what he decided.
“I am an American,” he began cautiously, “a writer.”
The Colonel eyed him with suspicion. “You are wearing a British uniform.”
“It was necessary,” said Paul. “The British insisted.”
“They insisted? How very much like them.” The Colonel stood up, leaning close to Paul and studying his face and hands. “You are not a soldier,” he concluded. “That much is clear. Yet it does not take a soldier to be a spy. Why are you here?” The tone of his voice made it evident to Paul that he was not convinced. “Are you trying to make the world safe for democracy, as your President Wilson has said? There are no Americans in this region. Speak!”
“No, I am not a soldier—only a writer. My government does not know I am here.”
“Oh? And what do you think you will see here? There is nothing here but the desert, unless, of course, you are interested in our trains. The battle is a hundred miles from this place. I think you are a spy.”
“I am not a spy, I write books, that’s all. You can see that I am unarmed.”
The Colonel regarded him in silence, his cigarette building a long ash as it burned. He took another drag, his eyes narrowing above the red glow of the cigarette tip in the darkness of the room.
Paul hoped the man could see that he was not a soldier. Can’t he tell by my accent that I’m not English? He probably thinks I was sent here by the British, though, and he’ll want to get at the reason soon enough.