McGreevy had made it back to his room, picked up his grip with the handguns, returned to the elevator and was back in the lobby in record time.    

He ran for the Waldorf's ornate entrance,  slowing only slightly, as he skidded around the famously ornate 9 foot tall lobby clock.  The monstrosity  had been salvaged from the 1893 Chicago World's Fair, and it's Windsor style chimes were now sounding the quarter hour, just as Kenneth at the front desk began to shout.

"Sir...SIR...there is no running in the lobby!", his voice a mixture of irritation, rapidly progressing to panic.

McGreevy tossed a casual "feckoff!" over his shoulder, as he went through the doors.  

He watched Winston Churchill step into a waiting taxi, and saw the hotel doorman close the door behind him.

  McGreevy ran to the next cab in line, grabbed an older gentleman by the shoulders, and spun him around so abruptly that he bounced off the doorman. The man, looking to McGreevy like the little fellow in the underground cult game " Monopoly", waved his walking stick in a rather unfriendly manner, before collapsing on his backside.

Jumping into the rear seat of the cab, and slamming the door shut, McGreevy paused for a split second to adjust his speaking voice and assess the stupidity of his next statement...

"FOLLOW THAT CAB!", he shouted in his American accent.

"Sure, and if it isn't me lucky day", said the driver, "to have Jimmy Cagney himself in me cab."

"Christ!", thought McGreevy to himself, "is everybody in this banjaxed town Irish?"

"Look, Paddy, there's five bucks in it for you, so just DO IT!"

Before McGreevy could get the last two words out, there was a squeal of rubber on wet tarmac, as the cab lept forward, heading up Park Avenue.

"Say, do you know Baruch's house over on Fifth Avenue?"

"You mean the stockbroker wot didn't lose it all in the Crash?  Sure enough, he's been in me cab as well, you know...and you can't miss a place like that."

"Let's say I wanna get there before that other cab does, see?"  McGreevy thought he was even beginning to sound like James Cagney. "Could another five make that happen?"

"Sure thing, Squire!", said the Cabbie, "I believe I know a short cut."

He turned the wheel sharply, and went down two side streets, a narrow alley and the wrong way on a one way street, before bringing his cab to an abrupt stop on Fifth Avenue.  

Darkness had fallen, and, as the cabbie confirmed the large, well lit mansion was the humble abode of the "Lone Wolf of Wall Street", he discreetly held out his right hand, palm up. 

As McGreevy leaned forward to hand over the $5 bill, he looked through the windshield and saw Churchill, a few yards away, pay off his own driver. The Englishman gave a brief wave as his cab pulled away.

McGreevy knew he was too late to have a clear shot now, and would end up waiting for hours in the cold until Churchill emerged at the end of his evening.  He hoped it wasn't a sleepover.

"All right", he said to the cabbie, "drive on, but make a right at the next side street."

McGreevy would later wonder if the cabbie thought he was still under the previous "drive like hell" orders, or if he was just a naturally fast driver. 

With another squeal of the tires, the cab accelerated quickly.

Churchill, looking to his right like anyone accustomed to left side of the street driving might, saw no oncoming cars, and stepped right in front of McGreevy's cab.   

Both McGreevy and the cabbie shouted "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" in harmony, as the Englishman rolled across the car's hood and into the windshield before landing in the street.  McGreevy was shocked at how loud the  thud was. The cab screeched to a stop, and both he and the cabbie jumped out to look at the motionless body.  

A crowd began to gather, and McGreevy slowly backed away from the scene. Retrieving his grip from the cab, he turned, and  calmly walked down Fifth Avenue.

In the confusion, nobody saw him leave.

Before long, he found himself in  a quiet section of Central Park. "Talk about your 'Luck of the Irish'!", he said quietly to himself, as he pushed the extra button on his watch, "I didn't even have to fire a shot!"

The green light enveloped him, obscuring his view of towering oaks and the New York Skyline towering over them. 

As 1931 slipped into 2001, he also couldn't see Winston Churchill's eyes flutter open, or hear that soon to be famous voice ask "what happened?"                     

    Making his way across the polished marble floor, Mc Greevy briefly glanced down at the intricate mosaic work that would be covered over in the 1960's, and not revealed again until renovations were begun in the mid 80's. He started to enter a cozy little place, known in his own time as Sir Harry's Bar, but stopped just inside the entrance.    
    An acrid bluish haze of tobacco smoke assaulted his senses, making his eyes itch.
    Deciding to forgo intimacy for proper ventilation, he stepped across the lobby toward the Park Avenue entrance, climbed the short wide staircase, and walked through the faux Greco-Roman columns into the Cocktail Terrace Lounge. Here, thirty foot ceilings allowed the omnipresent cigarette smoke to dissapate.
    A middle aged man sat at a grande piano just inside the entrance, playing what sounded like Hoagy Carmichael's "Stardust", only with more notes. He was dressed in a well cut tuxedo, and his white hair offered a striking contrast to his dark brown skin. McGreevy wondered if the man would be famous some day, since he knew Cole Porter himself would be sitting in that exact spot playing his own Steinway Grande by 1939.
     McGreevy placed a dollar in the oversized brandy snifter on the piano, and the man offered a graceful nod of his head and a gentle smile, without missing a note.
    Making his way to the bar and sat at the only unoccupied chair. The barman, heavy set, with a reddish complexion under a shock of auburn hair, came over without being summoned, and said "so, what'll it be, Sport?"
    McGreevy recognized the Dublin accent immediately.
    "Bushmills, with a splash of water please", he replied.
    "Well, then pardon me as I turn around", said the barman, " as I'll have to be pulling a bottle out of me arse!"
    "Would Jameson's be less painful?", said McGreevy, with a serene smile.
    With monumental self control, the barman snapped his dropped jaw back into place, yet still managed to go into immediate "orator" mode.
    "So, it would appear, ladies and gentlemen, that with all the newspapers in Ulster, yer man here has never heard of that bastard Volstead and his infernal act!", he announced to anyone sitting within 10 yards.
    "Prohibition has been the law of the land for over a decade, and this Gobshite seems to have missed that little bit o' news about Uncle Sam's noble experiment!"
    "Aw, lay off him, Jimmy", said a young woman, who had slipped in next to McGreevy at the bar.
    "He's probably just a tourist, like all the others."
    Turning to Michael, she said to him directly. "that's it, isn't? You're not from around her, I can tell. So, where are you from...uh, sorry...I didn't catch your name."
    "Michael...I mean, my name is Michael, and I'm from Belfast...and you..."
    "I knew it! A bloody Orangeman, is what he is!" said the barman.
    "Pipe down, Jimmy, and get Mike here a near-beer, on me."
    She turned on the bar stool, and held out her right hand, "Millie...", she said, and began to laugh. "Mike and Millie...sounds like a Vaudeville act!"
    He took her hand gently, "could be very entertaining", he said, "especially if you can sing."  
    Laughing again, a low pleasant laugh, she said "as a singer, I'm a really good dancer!"
    She looked to be about 25, with hair of a slightly darker shade than Jimmy's. Her eyes were a bright blue, and were probably more comfortable behind the glasses she was not wearing. McGreevy thought there was probably a pretty good figure under the straight, shapeless dark green dress with the subdued flower pattern Her shoes would make her look taller than she was.
    She admitted that Millie was short for Millicent, and that she had studied nursing at Fordham University in the Bronx.
    While McGreevy sipped his beer, he learned that her father was German, but her mother was Irish, and that she lived in a flat with two other girls, but since she worked the night shift at Lennox Hill Hospital as an LPN, which was a Licensed Practical Nurse, she never really saw them, so it was almost like having a place of her own, at least during the day.
    She said Sundays were her day off, so she just loved to come into Midtown and spend it watching healthy people for a change.
    "You ever watch people, Mike?", she asked.
    "All the time", he said, suprised at himself that he found her to be genuinly interesting.
    "I think the Waldorf is a swell place to watch people, and sometimes you see famous people too, like movie stars or political types", she said. "Or, even...well speak of the devil! Which was one of my mother's favorite expressions, which she said whenever she saw someone she had just been talking about, like right now you and I have been talking about famous people, right?    
    "Well there goes that Mr. Churchill as big as life! I saw his picture in the society pages. Well whatta you know! See what I mean, Mike?"
    She turned to where McGreevy had been sitting to see an empty chair.
    "Hey Jimmy, where'd Mike go?"
    "Dunno, Millie...he just suddenly looked at his watch, jumped up like a man afire, and ran for the lifts."
     Millie let out a long, dramatic sigh...
    "Well, how RUDE!", she said.

    The room was large, even lavish, compared to most hotels he had spent the night in. Still, it had an odd quaintness about it. The old fashioned furnishings and fixtures reminded him of a certain bed and breakfast in Cork, but without the wild goings on. That night was truly one for the ol' diary, it was!
    He picked up a piece of Waldorf Astoria stationary from the small antique desk near the window, and reached for the room phone. Hesitating just a moment, when he couldn't find a push button, he remembered to stick his index finger into the "O" hole, and twisted the rotor clockwise. When the PBX operator responded, he asked for an outside line, and dialed the number on the stationary, getting the same operator after just two rings.
    He dropped into his most posh, R.P. British accent
    "Yes, this is Sir Rodney Scrimshaw of His Majesty's Councilate. Would you be so kind as to ring up Winnie's room for me?...Beg pardon?...Oh, yes, very sorry...Mister Churchill's room...yes, I shall hold."
    There were a few clicks, a single buzz, and then a deep voice came on the line growling "Yes?".
    McGreevy immediately dropped into a passable imitation of Kenneth, the front desk clerk.
    "Mister Churchill, sorry to disturb, but this is Kenneth at the front desk. Sir, our concierge would like to know if you will be needing a cab this evening."
    "Yes, I shall...I...sorry young man, but did I not just speak with the very fellow within the past hour? Certainly, he must have told you."
    "I don't see it on my list, sir..."
    "Ah, the World Renouned American Efficiency strikes again, I see...well, no matter...as I told the other chap, I expect to leave for Mr. Baruch's residence on Fifth Avenue at 6 pm sharp."
    Very good, sir", said McGreevy and hung up the phone.
    So he had just under four hours to kill, which left time for a long shower and a short nap, as soon as he made one more call.
"Operator, this is the gentleman in room 406...might I trouble you to phone me at 5:30 this evening? I may be resting, and don't want to miss dinner...thank you so much."
    He pulled out a clean white broadcloth shirt and a dark blue silk tie. Next came the suit coat that matched his trousers. He began to take his clothes off, and was careful to hang the jacket over the trousers before putting the entire suit in the bathroom. A hot shower would help to clear his head, wash away the grime of a very grimy city and take the wrinkles out of his clothing all at the same time.
    Fifty minutes later, he walked out of the bathroom,wearing a blue terry cloth robe with a monogrammed WA embossed over his left breast. It took him a moment to realize there was no television, and he had thrown away his only newspaper after finding what he wanted. He briefly considered reading the room service menu, before realizing he wasn't tired enough to nap.
    He thought again of that bed and breakfast in Cork, and an equation formed in his mind;
    Hotels have bars, up scale hotels have up scale bars, and up scale bars often attract up scale women...
    "Right you are, Michael!" he almost shouted to himself, "a little female companionship and conversation might be just the ticket!"
    He put on the suite, shirt and tie, slicked back his already wet hair and looked at himself in the mirror above the dresser.
    "Where fashion sits...", he sang, snapping his fingures twice, "Puttin'on the Ritz!"
    He left his room, being careful to lock the door, and started down the hall to the elevator...
whistling.

    As he sat in the half empty subway car, McGreevy began to daydream. He could focus when he had to, but now he didn't have to, so he didn't. He loved trains and, to a lessor extent, busses for one simple reason; he didn't have to worry about driving.
    Because someone else was driving, he could let his mind wander where it wanted, and still get to his destination...usually on time. When he walked or, worse still, drove himself anywhere, he had a tendancy to meander...and was usually late.
    So he let his thoughts flow from one hazy idea to the next.
    He thought how Belfast weather could be even more miserable than New York weather, even without all the snow...how the air in this New York was far dirtier than in the New York he knew, what with the industrial pollution, smoke spewing automobiles and the fact that everyone he saw seemed to be smoking cigarettes. By 2001, cigarettes had pretty much gone the way of the spittoon, for reasons of health concerns and draconian taxes.
    Following the lead of their Fuhrer, the Nazis had been the first to outlaw the importation or possession of cigarettes in all Reich Territories, while imposing a tremendous tax and restriction on loose tobacco. McGreevy knew all about the laws, having made a few Reich Marks himself smuggling American made Lucky Strikes into the Reich through Spain back in the 80's.
    Here, you could by a pack of cigarettes for less than a dollar. There was a depression going on, but most people could still seem to scrape together a few cents to buy a pack of smokes...
    "Hang on!", he said to himself, "Depression...of course! In an economic depression, almost nobody has any money. Nobody but ME, that is!"
    His prep team had given him enough money to walk around 21st Century New York for a week! He had, in his money belt and in his pockets, a total of $1,500 in 70 year old United States currency. Each bill had been expertly counterfeited by the graphic arts boys at Vebbie. He probably had more money in his pockets than the Mayor of New York made in all of 1931. He thought of the little "newsie", and how that single dollar had made the kid's day...hell, it probably made his whole week!
    "No, Michael me lad", he said out loud, "no skulking in cold, damp alleys this trip."
    When he walked throught the doors of the Waldorf Astoria, he wasn't just there to look.
    He was going to stay.

    The well-groomed man behind the front desk seemed to turn a bit pale, and his pencil thin moustache quivered ever so slightly, when the man in the leather coat headed his way.
McGreevy unbelted and unbuttoned his trench coat to reveal a coarse grey work shirt, with no tie. His dark gaberdine trousers were held up with braces, and he tossed his hat over the bell used to call the bell boy.
    He knew from experience that later police investigations were often swamped with conflicting details, so he decided to play his part to the hilt, mentally kicking up his brogue a notch.
"So, tell me (glancing at the man's name tag), Kenneth, me boyo...how much for one of your fine rooms?"
    Swallowing once, the clerk said "Sir, you do realize this IS the Waldorf Astoria Hotel?", adding just a touch of haughtiness at the end.
    "Is it now? Well then, that might explain the sign out front", said McGreevy jovially.
    Then, allowing all humor and good will to drain from his face, he fixed the clerk with a stare and said in a deeper voice, "now, as to that room. I'll only be needing it for the night."
    "Sir, a single room, short term, without a reservation is...", he checked something below McGreevy's line of sight, then looked up and finished his sentence..."seventeen dollars per night...payable in advance."
    Pulling a wad of bills from his pocket, McGreevy peeled off a $10 and placed it on the desk. "Done!", he said, as he dropped another $10 with a loud slap, "and done!"
    He signed his own name, and was given the key to room 406.
    He insisted on carrying his own grip, the one with the guns in it, into the elevator and up to his room, yet still gave the bellboy a dollar tip for pointing out the bed, and the bathroom, and showing how the curtains worked.
    Another counterfeit dollar, and another happy American worker.
    Once he was alone, he took out the two Smith & Wesson .38's and began methodically putting a hollow point bullet into each chamber. While he was loading the revolvers, McGreevy sang softly to himself a song that wouldn't be written for over 50 years...he had first heard it as a kid, and it never failed to help him relax.

            "O coma way o coma wa o coma o coma way say I"

    With an easy, practiced wrist movement, he snapped the cylinder into place, sucessfully fighting off the urge to twirl the guns around each index finger.

    The green light penetrated his closed eyelids.
    As it faded, he slowly opened his eyes to see a wide expanse of grey-green water with a piece of land, covered haphazzardly in small wood houses, jutting up. Staten Island had not changed all that much.
    Turning towards the city, he was briefly shocked to see there was no World Alliance Tower. The Empire State Building had been completed that year, and was now the tallest building in the world. It dominated a skyline that seemed both familiar, and strangely alien, at the same time.
    He walked a few blocks on Fulton Street before heading north on Broadway.
    The streets were aligned the same way, but the traffic was different. It wasn't just the fact that all the cars were antiques, mostly painted black, but that there were so few of them. The sun was still very low in the eastern sky, so it might be too early for rush hour.
    McGreevy could have taken a cab, or even boarded what was called the "subway" to Park Avenue and 50th street, but it was his practice to walk for at least an hour when dropped into a new location. It gave him time to get a "feel" for the land, and to orient himself. Fortunately, he was familier with Midtown Mahatten, and many of the landmarks he saw around him had survived into his own time.
    It was cold...and smoky. He could see his breath turn to steam with every exhale, and he could smell the wood smoke, and what was likely coal smoke he saw rising from smoke stacks along the waterfront. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his full length leather trench coat, and pulled the black felt fedora a little further down his forehead.
    The property crew at the send off point were only able to come up with a "costume" from 1940 that fit him. The all male staff apparently decided 9 years would make little difference in men's fashions.
    McGreevy thought he looked like a Gestapo man.
    He took comfort in the fact that, in 1931, no American knew what a Gestapo man looked like.
    As he crossed Houston Street, pronounced HOUSE-ton, he remembered, a boy of no more than 10 or 12 ran up to him. The kid's freckles showed through his dirt smudged face, and he wore a tweed cap 3 sizes too big for him over a mass of orange curles.
    "Papa', Mista'?"
    "I beg your pardon?", said McGreevy.
    "Mawnin' Times...all de noose dey fit in print! Two bits!"
    Mc Greevy had transferred some of his cash from the money-belt to his coat pocket before the jump. He reached in, and pulled out a single dollar bill.
    "Is this enough?", he asked.
    The boy looked around quickly, before snatching the bill with a small hand.
    "Sure, sure Mista'! Hea's yer papa'...but I ain't got no change..."
    "Pay it no mind", said McGreevy, "go on, keep it".
    The kid looked around once more, then, without another word, tugged the front of his cap. He turned on his heels, ran down the street, and was soon out of sight.
    The date on the New York Times said Sunday, December 13, 1931...Sunday...no wonder the streets were so quiet and the paper so thick. Standing near a metal trash basket, he began stripping away sections of the paper until he found the Society page. He found what he was looking for and, if the article was right, so were the Abwehr boys back in 2001

    "FAMOUS ENGLISH WRITER RETURNS TO NEW YORK"
    Mr. Winston Churchill, accompanied by his charming wife Clementine, returned today after     a successful speaking engagement in Worcester, Massachusetts. The couple will resume            residence at the new Waldorf Astoria, prior to returning to England in the New Year.

    So now, knowing that his handlers had done their homework, McGreevy decided to cut short his walk and take their advice for a change. He went down a flight of stairs, pulled a small brass disc from another coat pocket, put it in a metal slot and walked through the turnstile. He knew the number 6 subway line would take him to 51st and Lexington Avenue, leaving him just a block from the newly completed Waldorf Astoria.
    The Waldorf, open for just two months, was the biggest hotel in the world at the time. An instant tourist attraction, there was a constant mob of people milling about this monument to opulence placed in the middle of a Great Depression.
    McGreevy would be among the milling.