The Turning of the Tide

Derek has an appointment with a watchmaker, then he has a boat to catch.

Derek dropped his cigarette on the flagstone doorstep and crushed it out with a twist of his shoe. The watchmaker, Neukirk, had just turned into the dark cobble-stoned street. It wasn't the man himself that Derek was interested in, but the contents of the leather doctor's bag he carried. Derek sank back into the deep shadow of the doorway and watched as the old man made his way toward the limestone-fronted apartment building across the street, his cane clicking on the cobbles with every other step.

Neukirk set the bag down and reached into his waistcoat pocket for his door key. Derek took two quick steps across the narrow street and struck him hard across the back of the head with a lead-weighted leather cosh, then caught him as he crumpled into unconsciousness and lowered him to the ground.

"Sorry old chum. Nothing personal," he said, picking up the case and walking quickly away from the scene. If the boffins were right, Derek was now carrying something that would turn the tide... but first he had to catch it.

The first sign of trouble came within sight of the docks. Checkpoint. That wasn't there an hour ago! Oh well, couldn't be helped.

Derek strode across the road toward the gate as if he belonged, reaching into his coat pocket for his forged papers and the letter that identified him as a member of the fishing boat's crew. As he hoped, the soldier at the checkpoint didn't say a dicky bird, just reached out his hand for the proffered papers. He glanced at each item, held up the identity card to compare Derek's face to the black and white photograph, then handed them all back and waved him through. No interest in the bag. Easy as that, thought Derek. Home free.