Lightning

onlookers. The lot was encircled by a wall, so the only way out was past the women and along the side of the church.
    Deciding that boldness was the best course, Klietmann walked straight toward the women, as if there was nothing whatsoever unusual about his having materialized out of thin air, and his men followed him. Mesmerized, the women watched them approach.
    "Good morning, ladies." Like Krieger, Klietmann had learned to speak English with an American accent in hopes of serving as a deep-cover agent, but he'd been unable to lose his accent entirely, no matter how hard he studied and practiced. Though his own watch was set to local time, he knew he could no longer trust it, so he said, "Could you please be so kind as to tell me what time it is?"
    They stared at him.
    "The time?" he repeated.
    The woman in yellow pastel twisted her wrist without letting go of the casserole, looked at her watch, and said, "Uh, it's ten-forty."
    They were two hours and forty minutes late. They couldn't waste time searching for a car to hot-wire, especially not when a perfectly good one was available, with keys, right in front of them. Klietmann was prepared to kill both women for the car. He could not leave their bodies in the parking lot; an alarm would go up when they were found, and shortly thereafter the police would be looking for their car—a nasty complication. He'd have to stuff the bodies in the trunk and take them with him.
    The woman in blue pastels said, "Why've you come to us, are you angels?"
    Klietmann wondered if she was senile. Angels in pinstripe suits? Then he realized that they were in the vicinity of a church and had appeared miraculously, so it might be logical for a religious woman to assume they were angels, regardless of their clothing. Maybe it would not be necessary to waste time killing them, after all. He said, "Yes, ma'am, we are angels, and God needs your car."
    The woman in yellow said, "My Toyota here?"
    "Yes, ma'am." The driver's door was standing open, and Klietmann put his attache on the front seat. "We're on an urgent mission for God, you saw us step through the pearly gate from Heaven right before your eyes, and we must have transportation."
    Von Manstein and Bracher had gone around to the other side of the Toyota, opened those doors, and gotten inside.
    The woman in blue said, "Shirley, you've been
chosen
to give your car."
    "God will return it to you," Klietmann said, "when our work here is done." Remembering the gasoline shortages of his own war-torn era and not sure how plentiful fuel was in 1989, he added: "Of course, no matter how much gas is in the tank now, it'll be full when we return it and perpetually full thereafter. The loaves and fishes thing."
    "But there's potato salad in there for the church brunch," the woman in yellow said.
    Felix Hubatsch had already opened the rear door on the driver's side and had found the potato salad. Now he took it out of the car and put it on the macadam at the woman's feet.
    Klietmann got in, closed the door, heard Hubatsch slam the door behind him, found the keys in the ignition, started the car, and drove out of the church lot. When he looked in the rearview mirror just before turning into the street, the old women were still back there, holding their casseroles, staring after him.
10
    Day by day they refined their calculations, and Stefan exercised his left arm and shoulder as much as he dared, trying to prevent it from growing stiff as it healed, hoping to maintain as much muscle tone as possible. On Saturday afternoon, January 21, as their first week in Palm Springs drew to a close, they completed the calculations and arrived at the precise time and space coordinates that Stefan would require for the jaunts he would make once he returned to 1944.
    "Now I just need a bit more time to heal," he said, as he stood up from the computer and testingly moved his left arm in circles. .
    She said, "It's been eleven days since you were shot. Do you still have pain?"
    "Some. A deeper, duller pain. And not all the time. But the strength isn't back. I think I'd better wait a few days yet. If it feels all right by next Wednesday, the twenty-fifth, I'll return to the institute then. Sooner, if I improve faster, but certainly no later than next Wednesday."
    That night, Laura woke from a nightmare in which she was confined yet again to a wheelchair and in which destiny, in the form of a faceless man in a black robe, was busily erasing Chris from reality, as if