Atticus sat alone in The Outsiders’ office, reading through the endless piles of meeting notes Oliver had gathered. Although calling it an office was somewhat generous. It was more like a glorified broom closet.
He checked his smart watch - well, without wi-fi or a mobile network it was basically just a watch. He’d had to change the settings so the screen remained a watch face. He fought the urge to continually check for emails or messages. There wouldn’t be any for another fifty years.
Oliver and Henry were two floors below, literally knee-deep in paperwork. They were searching for more references to Alistair Jayne, his assignments, as well as any and all connections to the East Berlin mission. They’d taken his directive from yesterday to heart and were scrutinising every facet of the spy’s life. If there was a missing school report from his grade three physical education class, they’d find it. They’d leapt at the task with admirable gusto; Atticus was impressed with their shared enthusiasm. Unfortunately, none of what they’d found so far was relevant to Operation Odysseus.
Alone in the office, Atticus rubbed his eyes. Another night of restless sleep. He’d love a cup of coffee, but he’d yet to find anything remotely worthy of the title. He needed to get out of the office. He picked up his little spiral notepad and opened it to the appropriate page. About to stand, Maggie bounded in, carrying a piece of paper, her face beaming.
“You always seem so pleased with yourself.”
She fluttered her eyes. “Look, when you’re this fabulous it’s hard to be anything else.”
“Ha, okay, I’ll bite, what’ve you got?”
Dancing over, she elaborately placed the piece of paper before him and raised an eyebrow.
“And this is?”
“A piece of paper.” She comically placed her outstretched palms beside her face in mock-shock, then her expression turned serious. “One of my mates downstairs decrypted a message from Teufelsberg.” She paused, apparently revelling in the dramatic tension. “It uses the words ‘entführen’ and ‘MI6’.”
“Entführen. Kidnapped?”
She nodded. “The rest of the message was undecipherable, but it is kind of critical, right?”
Atticus scratched his chin. They potentially had their link. An East German mentioning kidnapping and MI6 together. It was no coincidence. There was a mole.
Atticus turned the paper over several times. “What happened to this once it came in?”
“That’s the thing.” Maggie sat on the corner of the desk. “The indigo memo package went upstairs, marked urgent.”
Atticus waited for the rest of the story. Apparently, that was it. He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, and?
“This all occurred yesterday. The secure memo envelope was sent back to be destroyed, marked complete.”
“Complete?” Atticus shook his head. “And it didn’t get to the team actually searching for a mole.”
“Hence why we’re having this conversation. Seem strange to you?”
Atticus was used to the ruthless efficiency of his MI6, but he highly doubted that even in this time something so crucial could have been accidentally missed. This wasn’t an oversight; this was deliberate sabotage.
“It really does.” Atticus was no longer tired. “Can your friend find out who had access to the memo circulation?”
“She’s already on it. I’ve asked her to do it in secrecy.”
“You’re a natural agent.”
This required further investigation. Were The Outsiders being hobbled before they’d even started? Why did it seem like a deliberate act of sabotage? Once again, Atticus was reminded there was far more going on than he was aware of. It only strengthened his resolve. If they thought leaving him out of the loop on a memo would slow him down, they didn’t know Atticus Wolfe.
He tapped the page with a knuckle and nodded his thanks. “Better get your coat.”
Maggie tilted her head in confusion.
“Get your coat, time for some field work.”
She grimaced. “Now you’re making fun of me.”
“No, I’m actually not.” He lifted the spiral pad. “I have Jayne’s address here, I was going to check it out. You up for an adventure?”
She practically jumped up and down on the spot. “Yes, I am!”
“By adventure,” he tried to sound all business, “I mean entering someone’s flat, poking around and coming back to work. Not what one would call particularly exciting.”
“That’s the most exciting this job has ever gotten!”
Atticus grinned. “It’s a flat in Soho, not a parachute drop into the middle of the Kremlin.”
Waving a finger, Maggie squinted. “Don’t short-change this. The closest I’ve ever come to field work is the time I took three letters to the GPO four years ago. This is big for me.”
“Guess what, Maggie Dunbar? You’re a field agent now.”
She did a little shimmy as she reached for her coat, and Atticus was sure he heard her give an excited squeal.
He was about to make a crack about how Jayne could afford to live in Soho, then realised he was living in Covent Garden. In his time, both areas were pretty much exclusively reserved for the rich. Atticus didn’t know if Soho was as prohibitively expensive in 1963, but it did seem an odd choice for a spy’s address. He reached for his coat.
“I have to make one stop first before we head out, if that’s okay?”
She shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
Downstairs on the ground floor, Atticus asked Maggie to wait outside, explaining that he had something to ask Mrs Abernathy. Behind her eyes he could see there was a war going on. Maggie seemed inquisitive as to why he had to speak to Mrs Abernathy, but chose to say nothing. He expected she was deeply interested, but feared jinxing her invite.
Atticus approached the pleasant, but apparently deadly, receptionist, who sat rigidly behind her desk.
“I hear, as well as being the most marvellous receptionist, and a snappy dresser, you’re also the resident armourer.”
Recent experiences had reinforced Atticus’s belief that he needed to be armed even when he least expected to need it. The confrontation with Omar Ganim in the street was the first example that came to mind. Atticus wasn’t willing to take any chances.
Mrs Abernathy shook her head and issued a wry smile. “My, aren’t you a smooth one.” She hefted an eyebrow. “But also, you’re correct about all those things.”
“Excellent. I need a gun.”
Her pleasant demeanour soured. “What, may I ask, for?”
“I’m not sure, entirely. Perhaps shoot a thing, if it comes to that. I hear guns are suitable for such activities.”
“What activities might they be?”
“Indeterminate. Could be a number of troubles. Maybe nothing.”
“That’s rather vague.”
“We live in a vague world.”
“You have no target in mind?”
“No. But I can’t say the same for the other side.”
“So, there’s no direct threat to your person?”
“No, not directly, but we live in dangerous times.”
“So, you’re not aiming to do anyone in particular harm?”
“I wasn’t planning to. Do you have anyone in mind? If I may say so, for an armourer you seem rather reluctant to issue a firearm.”
“Just performing my responsibilities as designated. It is my sworn duty to protect the citizenry of the British Empire, from the street beggar to the Prime Minister.”
“I wasn’t planning on murdering any beggars.”
“What about the Prime Minister?”
“Why on Earth would I assassinate the leader of our nation?”
“There’s a lot of it going about.”
“So I hear.”
The two plastered on pleasant expressions and eyeballed one another across the desk. Somewhat reluctantly, Mrs Abernathy opened a drawer and pulled out a Browning Hi-Power and two 9mm Parabellum cartridges and placed them on the centre of the desk.
The choice of weapon was quaint. The Browning was reliable as hell but had a tendency to “bite” the web of the shooter's hand, between the thumb and forefinger. Atticus had fired one on the range years ago, more for the novelty than anything else.
He went to pick up the pistol, but Mrs Abernathy slapped his hand with a clipboard.
“Sign here, please.” Her demeanour was devoid of any of her previous amusement.
“Certainly.” Atticus signed. “I shall return it in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
Her narrowed eyes didn’t leave Atticus until he was through the front door. Despite her gruffness, he quite liked Mrs Abernathy’s cold efficiency. He had little doubt she was capable of living up to her deadly reputation.
Outside, the wind was biting. Atticus folded the overcoat Oliver had given him around his torso. The oversized coat didn’t fit particularly well, and it was coarse and heavy. It felt more like a horse blanket than a stylish overcoat. He really hoped he would get paid soon.
Maggie greeted him beaming. She positively danced down the street, she was so excited. She was less pleased when she eyed his coat, however. Thankfully, she kept her opinion to herself, her expression as dispassionate as an Egyptian sphynx.
As they entered St. James’s Park tube station Atticus felt suddenly ill at ease. He’d walked home the night before and to work that morning. The first time on the underground, Oliver had handed him the ticket and he’d been too wrapped up in the novelty of the experience to pay much attention to the practicalities of it all. How did he pay for tickets? Was there an inspector like there was on a bus? He couldn’t afford to have Maggie see him floundering over what to do. He’d done that enough already. But there was no way he could convincingly talk her into walking to Soho. He’d have to bluff his way through and hope for the best.
Nearing the platform, he instinctively wanted to pull out his Oyster card and tap on. An ingrained force of habit. For a fleeting second, he wondered if he lived for another forty years if he could use the remainder of his balance. The meandering thought was soon dismissed by a far more pressing matter.
A uniformed transit officer approached with a pleasant demeanour, all humorous eyes and rosy cheeks. He had thick grey muttonchop sideburns. “Ticket, love?”
In Atticus’s time, anyone calling someone “love” would likely soon be at the receiving end of a tirade, but Maggie returned his humorous manner, opened her purse and flashed a grey cardboard ticket. The man gave her a polite grin and turned to Atticus, face expectant.
Fighting the urge to tug at his collar, he sighed. “I, uh, need to buy a ticket.”
“Right you are, sir.” The man fiddled with the silver mechanism strapped to his belt. “Where to, then?”
“Oxford Circus. Return, I guess.”
It was then Atticus realised the situation was graver than he first thought. Oliver hadn’t given him his own money. All he had was a wallet full of plastic banknotes and microchipped credit cards; not exactly helpful in 1963.
“I, ah, left my money in my old wallet.”
Tilting her head to the side, Maggie gave him a playful shake of her head, as if saying, you’re useless. From her purse, she stuffed a handful of coins in his palm.
Atticus gaped at the unfamiliar coins, then at the transit officer, then at Maggie and then back to the coins again.
The bridge of Maggie’s nose crinkled in mixture of amusement and confusion. “Just give him three and six for a weekly. That’ll get you through. Fix me up later.”
Atticus contemplated her blankly. Sweat flowed from everywhere. Why did being around Maggie make him far more nervous than anyone else? Trying to get his head back in the game, he attempted to focus, and racked his brain on how old money worked. He recalled something about the pre-decimal pound being divided into 20 shillings and each shilling into 12 pence, making 240 pence to the pound. Or was it the other way around? How the hell was anyone meant to make sense of that?
As the uncomfortable pause was meandering into outright awkwardness, Maggie noted his hesitation. “You right there?”
Atticus threw her his best charming smile and held the coins aloft. “It’s, uh, I haven’t used the Tube in a while.”
She crinkled her face as if he’d just said, I forgot how to walk. Maggie rolled her eyes, took a few coins from his collection and handed them to the blue-coated officer. The two exchanged pitying expressions as the older man handed Atticus the cardboard ticket.
“There you are, squire. Enjoy the journey.”
Atticus’s mouth was dry. He thanked the transit officer with a nod and strode as quickly as he could to the platform. At least he knew which line to take to get to Soho. Or at least, he thought he did. For all he knew he could end up in Thamesmead.
Thankfully, travelling on the Tube was the same as he’d always experienced. Hardly anyone spoke. He and Maggie stood together in the swaying carriage not talking. Instead of heads buried in phones, commuters buried their heads in newspapers and paperback novels. A few stared blankly at nothing at all, but all were lost in their own little self-contained bubbles. Nothing much had changed there.
The two exited the station and walked side by side. They ambled down the recognisable streets of Soho—at least, the layout of streets was recognisable. On the corner was where his favourite sushi joint was. Or would be. Atticus was having trouble keeping track of his tenses. Further down was where he bought his moisturiser. He once went on an unsuccessful blind date where there was now a family-owned hardware store. Atticus couldn’t remember if in his era there was a single hardware store in the greater London area that wasn’t a chain store.
They strolled quietly for a few minutes. Maggie twitched and placed her hands in her pockets, then out, then in again. It was as if someone had asked her how to walk and she was self-consciously trying not to appear like she wasn’t overthinking it.
Atticus smirked. “Stop fidgeting.” He pointed to her hands. “A field agent makes as few movements as possible. You’re like a junkie with Parkinson’s.”
“Easy for you to say, Mr Cool-as-a-Cucumber.” She blew a stray hair which fell across her face. “Take my mind off it then.” Maggie went to pull her hands out of her pockets, but stopped. “Is there a Mrs Wolfe?”
“No, no Mrs Wolfe.”
“Girlfriend?’
“No.” Atticus wasn’t sure why, but the question stung. He’d recently gone out with a lovely young advertising executive who he’d hoped to see again, but it would be a good thirty years before she’d be born.
If this was his time, the next question would have been if Maggie had a boyfriend or husband. But he was all too aware that this wasn’t his time. “I guess my work makes it difficult. I have a lot of friends to hang out with when I’m in town, they look after me.”
Atticus was overcome with pangs of homesickness. Memories flooded in. Nights out in Soho with friends at the hip new Tibetan restaurant where you just turned up because they didn’t accept bookings and you drank overpriced cocktails in the packed waiting area while praying for the next available table. Good times he wouldn’t have again. Friends he’d never see again. A life he’d never get back.
With a growing sense of unease, he realised how pitiful the life he currently led in this timeline was. He currently had no friends to speak of. The ones he remembered hadn’t even been born yet. In this time, at best he had work colleagues, but he’d only known those for a couple of days. He admired the camaraderie Maggie and Oliver shared, but he’d yet to attain it himself. His association with Oliver was one of necessity rather than genuine friendship. Once again, Atticus was reminded how companionless he was. The memory of his little sojourn to Brixton the night before rammed the point down his throat all too well.
Strolling around the familiar/unfamiliar Soho, Atticus wondered if you could be homesick when you were actually home, walking the exact same streets you so desperately longed for.
“You seem a million miles away there. You alright?”
Atticus turned to Maggie. Her forehead was crinkled in concern. He gave her a reassuring smile. At least she’d stopped fidgeting.
“What about you?” He scanned her hand. “No ring, so not married. Boyfriend? Let me guess, you’re dating the prettiest Mod boy.”
Scowling, Maggie shook her head. “Oh, god no. No woman in her right mind dates a Mod boy.”
“Why not?”
“Well, they dress beautifully, of course, loads better than the birds. But they love their stuff, you know, purple hearts, French blues, black bombers,” she jutted out her elbow, “you know. They’re way too hopped up for any respectable dolly girl.”
Atticus thought she most probably meant amphetamines, speed.
“Most care more about their clothes and outdoing their mates than spending quality time with birds. Plus, on the stuff they don’t have the, uh, drive, and their thing don’t work.” She turned suddenly coy but moved on quickly. “Nah, Mod boys are good friends, but useless for anything else.”
He didn’t have anything to add. As they walked on quietly, Atticus vigilantly scanned the streets. Suddenly, a figure out the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned his head to see Omar Ganim standing on the other side of the street. No fanfare, no dramatic sting. The terrorist simply stood there, leaning against a brick wall, gazing blankly in Atticus’s direction. He raised a hand to wave as a double decker bus sped by. When the bus had passed, the wall he’d been leaning against was blank, no sign of Ganim. Atticus stepped forward to give chase, but there was nothing to pursue. There was no door or way he could have disappeared from view. There was only one possible explanation.
Atticus stopped walking and stood rigidly still. He was definitely going insane.
He was there, I know he was there. Atticus did his best to show no outward sign of panic, though he surely failed. The vision had been fleeting but seemed so real. Combined with the phantom Mini from the night before, Atticus wondered if he might actually be losing his mind. Something else to add to the list.
Concern seeping from every pore, Maggie touched his sleeve. “Are you alright?”
Not sure he could accurately answer, Atticus motioned that they should keep walking. Forehead wrinkled with worry, Maggie did just that, albeit reluctantly. As they went, Atticus couldn’t help looking back at where the realistic apparition had appeared. His chest tightened. What is going on?
He swallowed hard, concentrating on the task at hand. He looked towards the next corner, doing his best to hide how rattled he truly was. “We’re here.”
They turned off Brewer Street onto Golden Square. Jayne’s flat was in sight. Third floor, overlooking Golden Square park. Not bad. Not bad at all. If Jayne didn’t come from old money, Atticus was becoming increasingly suspicious of the missing spy.
With something to focus on rather than a phantom criminal, Atticus’s mood improved. The closer he came to the building, the more Atticus felt back on familiar ground. More than that, it felt like home. For the first time in days, Atticus felt like he was finally back at work. His work.
Feeling warm from the recognisable rush of adrenaline, he took off his coat, scanning the streets for surveillance vans or anyone taking a more than casual glimpse in their direction. The street seemed clear, but his years of experience told him one could never be certain.
Looking him up and down, Maggie shook her head. “I’m pretty sure my grandad has that exact same suit.”
Atticus glanced down at his ill-fitting attire. She was right. Even an off-the-rack suit would be better than what he was wearing, especially compared to his normal tailored ensembles. Oliver had warned him repeatedly not to wear the suit he arrived in as he deemed it too “futuristic”.
“At the Admiralty I wore naval uniforms, so I’m a bit out of the loop, unfortunately. When I get a second, I’ll go shopping.” As lies went, it was pretty convincing. “Until then,” he did a little twirl, “I guess I’m the ambassador for grandpa fashion.”
She issued him a curious look, as if she wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. Atticus put his game face on. It was time to go to work.
Carefully entering the airy carpeted foyer, Atticus eyed every door with suspicion. The paintwork was blemish free and the mailboxes weren’t worn from years of use. The whole scene gave a high-end impression. They slowly made their way to the third-floor landing.
From the rear of his unfashionable suit Atticus extracted the Browning. Maggie’s eyes went wide at the sight. Her mouth opened in a gasp, but to her credit she made no sound.
In a hushed tone, he asked, “Do you know how to use this?”
“It’s not usual training for the secretary pool, I’m afraid.” Her voice was frail, unsure.
Atticus flicked the safety off and handed it to her. “Pretty straightforward, just point and shoot. Unless you actually want to kill someone, keep your finger out of the guard and rest it like this.” He gently moved her delicate finger to the side of the pistol. “Try not to shoot anything unless I tell you to, alright?”
Pale at the thought, Maggie gulped. “Alright.” Even as a whisper, her voice broke.
Leaning down, Atticus inspected the door’s lock. He extracted a small leather pouch from his jacket pocket and selected his favourite two silver implements. The lock picks were MI6-issued, like the Browning, but these were from his own time. Atticus never went anywhere without his trusty lockpicking kit. Thankfully it had been in his pocket when he’d been transported back in time. He was pleased to discover a Yale lock was still a Yale lock.
As he leaned in and slid in the Bogota rake, Atticus half turned to Maggie. He spoke in a low whisper. “See, some folks think it’s all about the raking action. But it’s the tension wrench that’s the unsung hero of lockpicking. Too much tension and the pins will not be able to set correctly; too little, same result.”
Maggie skewed her soft lips to the side of her mouth. “Are you trying to impress me, Mr Wolfe?”
“Why would I be doing that?”
“I'm asking myself the same thing, actually.”
Atticus hadn’t been. At least, he didn’t think so.
The lock snapped into place and the door slid open silently. Seemingly against her better judgement, Maggie gave an amused smirk. Pocketing his tools, he tenderly took back the gun from her with a wink. Jerking his head towards the flat, he softly pointed the gun inside, indicating that he’d go first. In reply Maggie clenched her fists. Their communication was silent but assured.
Atticus Wolfe stepped into the flat, gun skyward, eyes scanning for threats. The hallway was clear, silent. A couple of framed Matisse prints gave the entrance a sophisticated air. Stepping quietly on the sides of his feet, he entered the lounge room. It was light-filled, but small. The furniture was more modern than his Covent Garden flat. Minimal clutter. It seemed Alistair Jayne kept an orderly flat. No one was at home.
“Seems Jayne is a loner.”
Maggie closed the front door silently. She hefted her top lip into a playful sneer. “What, because he keeps a tidy room?”
“More than that. I can tell a lot about the man by simply standing here. There’s minimal seating—he doesn’t expect extra guests. Same goes for lack of cushions; it’s not about making people feel welcome. The uncluttered bookshelf, lack of personal effects. The organised setting signifies a Type A personality who values the way things appear over the way they function.”
A wry smile crossed Maggie’s red lips. “It could be that an MI6 field agent doesn’t care about home comforts. Thought of that, Mr Everything-has-a-meaning?”
“Believe me, he cares. When all is said and done this would be his sanctuary. Travelling the world, risking your life, you want something familiar and comforting when you come home. You want something more personal than endless hotel rooms.”
“And what would you know, sailor boy?”
Realising he had no comeback, Atticus remained mute.
With a nudge, Maggie rolled her eyes. “You like being the smartest guy in the room, don’t you?”
About to retort, Atticus stopped.
There was a noise, a faint creak of a floorboard. It wasn’t from either of them. They weren’t alone in the flat.
Motioning for Maggie to remain where she stood, he edged slowly towards the large arch to the left of the lounge, to what Atticus could only assume was the kitchen. Rounding the corner, Atticus aimed his pistol at the new target.
Standing at the centre of the kitchen was a solidly built man in his forties. He had salt and pepper hair and a tartan suit. He stood over a collection of papers which had been poured onto the kitchen table. In his hand was a soft brown leather chequebook that he seemed particularly interested in.
He turned as Atticus entered and issued a friendly wave. “Oh, hello.”
“May I ask you who you are?” Atticus didn’t lower his weapon.
“Jenkins. The landlord.” His accent was all London. No Russian twang.
In his peripheral vision, Atticus saw Maggie’s shoulders sag in apparent relief. Atticus wished there was a way he could convey to her not to. In fact, she should be doing the exact opposite.
“Is that right?” Atticus didn’t move. “Awful lot of papers there.”
“I was just thinkin’ the same thing.”
“Is it usual for landlords to go through their tenants’ chequebooks?”
“’onestly can’t speak for other landlords, mate.”
Atticus had to concede the point. “Owned the place long?”
“Sp’ose going on five years or so, I reckon.”
“Own many properties?”
“Oh, enough to keep me busy, not enough to make me rich.”
“May I ask you something, Jenkins?”
“Sure, guv. It’s a free country, innit?”
“You don’t seem particularly perturbed that a man entered your flat armed with a gun. In fact, you didn’t feel the need to even mention it.”
“I thought that was more your concern.”
Atticus did his best not to smile at the response. This guy is good.
It was the shoulders. The move was tiny, almost imperceptible, but it was there. The right shoulder tilted slightly forward. His right hand issued the tiniest of twitches. His gun hand. Probably-not-Jenkins was readying himself for a crouch or to reach for his weapon, which was creating a slight bulge under the left side of his jacket.
“Well,” Jenkins scratched the back of his neck with a sigh, “I guess we should be gettin’ on with it then?”
“I guess we should at that.” Without turning, Atticus leaned his head back and spoke towards the lounge. “Maggie, best you leave now.”
“W-why?”
Jenkins wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “He means to say there’s gonna be a gunfight, love.”
“A wha—”
In a lightning-fast move, Jenkins hefted his knee to kick up the table, flinging it into the air, and with it the pile of papers. In the same instant, he reached under his jacket and extracted a pistol.
Atticus and Jenkins fired at the same time.