Shadows Out of Time

Crowley removed his nondescript fedora and gently rubbed his ears. Despite the late winter chill, his coat was unbuttoned, flapping in the icy wind. Crowley barely noticed. He had survived far worse weather in his mountaineering days.

“I was waiting a block away for the racket to cease. My ears are still ringing from the pounding of those pneumatic drills.” He peered down into the ragged hole the Bureau had dug in the middle of Atlantic Avenue.

“We call them jack-hammers.” Blake spoke louder than necessary, due to the ringing in his own ears.

“Of course you would. Have we, you, broken through?”

“We just finished widening the access.”

Two Bureau agents angled a twenty-foot ladder into the gap. It stopped with a yard to spare.

“Time for introductions. Aleister Crowley.” Blake turned to the man beside him as he spoke. “This gentleman is Edmond Fiske. He’s a lieutenant with the New York Police bomb squad. His expertise has proven invaluable in the last few years.”

Fiske extended a hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Crowley. Bob tells me you’ve been working for the British govern…?”

Crowley raised a finger to pursed lips, even though the area had been cleared of people for a block in every direction. Fiske nodded, realizing his gaffe. Behind his own tight smile, Crowley feared Blake and his associates might be getting careless. “The British Cultural Exchange, yes. We’ve been researching the history of train travel in both our countries. This is one of the earliest underground tunnels in the world.”

“Our job would’ve been easier if we knew how the saboteurs themselves were getting in here,” Blake complained.

“We still don’t know that they are,” Crowley reminded him. “My own sources were still unable to verify your information.”

“Well, our people have been coming up empty for months as well. This is the only lead we’ve had. We need to at least check it out.” Blake’s frown did not differ much from his normal resting face. “You don’t usually tag along on these investigations, Aleister. Working in the shadows, that’s more your style. Aren’t you worried you might expose your cover?”

I’m more concerned that your people might do it for me, Crowley thought, glancing at Fiske again. He said nothing, however, shrugging off the misstep. This time.

“What can I say? I love forgotten places. Gives me the same thrill I get from mountaineering.”

Crowley watched Fiske descend the ladder to the tunnel floor, then followed with a flourish of his coattails. Blake was right behind him.

“In any case,” the magician continued, when all three men were below ground, “considering how much noise your people made, I can’t imagine anyone hiding down here would not have left.”

“That may be,” Blake replied, “but they won’t have had time to clear out their equipment. I left two men standing by up top, in case someone tries to follow us. If we’re lucky, perhaps our German friends will show while we’re down here.”

The trio swung their flashlights in different directions. Scattered debris created uneven footing, but the bedrock walls and brick arches overhead seemed quite solid for a structure that had been neglected for over half a century. The air was stale, but breathable, and the ground surprisingly dry.

Crowley checked the revolver in his right coat pocket, which was counterbalanced by the electric torch and assorted other tools in his left. A year had passed since he’d been accidentally shot in the leg; he did not wish to repeat the experience. The Beast also preferred his own familiar weapon to the Bureauissued guns.

“We might cover more ground, quicker, if we split up,” the magician advised. Now that he was getting the feel of this tunnel, he was more than ever certain they would find no evidence of German saboteurs down here, and that this whole enterprise would prove a futile exercise for the Bureau of Investigation. He was further convinced, however, having spent decades dealing with magic rituals and effects, that this confined space housed something far more sinister. Something no ordinary government agent was equipped to deal with.

“Mr. Crowley,” Blake interrupted. “If you don’t mind. I’m the lead investigator here. You are merely a consultant.”

“Of course,” Crowley conceded, bowing to hide his smirk.

Blake accepted the apology with a curt nod. “Right. Fiske, we’ll split up, cover more territory that way. I’ll head north, you two go south.”

“I’m willing to scout ahead of Lieutenant Fiske and work my way backwards,” Crowley volunteered.

“Agreed.” Blake knew better than to chastise Crowley too often. “If you need help, or find something, give a yell. Shouts should echo pretty well down here.”

For the next quarter-hour, the only sounds Crowley heard were the scraping of shoes against stone, and an occasional soft curse as Blake or Fiske stumbled over a loose patch of debris, or across a stretch of long-disused track.