Guardian of Time

by Linda Hawley

  “A bad day? Those Pentagon idiots used me to confirm a kill of American SEALs,” I yelled. “During my time on this project as Air Force, and since then as a CIA employee, I’ve only remote viewed situations that helped America defend itself. Everything I’ve done until today, I’ve done for the cause of democracy in the world. But today…today…I was a pawn of the Pentagon,” I said.

  I looked over to John, who remained still, and he gazed back with soft eyes that seemed to have aged.

  Closing my mouth shut, I stood and left, without uttering another word.

  Chapter 16

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  The Year 2015

  Remembering my last day at the CIA as I stared down my nemesis through the hotel window was a vivid reminder of what I was fighting against. That day was my last remote view, until recently.

  Many years later, Armond and I were discussing my work with the CIA, and he thought I was denying my God-given talent. I remember he asked me, “Can’t you just believe in your gift?” That made me mad, and we ended up having a huge fight.

  I closed my eyes to the view of the Pentagon, took the few steps to the hotel bathroom, and quickly stripped off my clothes, trying to shed the bold images in my mind of those Navy SEALs.

  I had an hour until I had to be at the GOG meeting. I stepped into the shower, and as the hot water streamed over me, I let the memories drip away.

  Thirty-five minutes later, I was dressed in Patagonia black hemp pants, a wrapped gray-blue cotton blouse, and Keen walking shoes. I exited the hotel with my messenger bag draped across my body and headed to the Pentagon City entrance, which was connected to the Ritz via a long corridor.

  Entering the mall area at the third floor, I headed toward the escalators, which would take me to the main floor. Since the ceiling above me was glass, the mall was flooded with bright natural light. I was supposed to meet my contact at the food court on the main floor.

  It was easy to find, for the reek of grease. Making my way through the crowds, I approached the Orange Julius. I was second in line. My contact was supposed to find me by my order.

  “One plain hot dog, please,” I said louder than usual, because I didn’t see anyone near the counter who could be my contact.

  The previous customer had already left.

  “What to drink?” the tall, stocky black man asked with a pleasant smile.

  “Nothing.”

  “Now you can’t eat a plain hot dog without a drink,” the 30-something pressed, again with a smile.

  “Just the dog.”

  “You know how the bun gets stuck to the roof of your mouth when you eat it plain?” he asked, leaning toward me. “If you don’t have a drink, how’re you gonna get it off?” he asked in all seriousness.

  He was right.

  As I laughed, he leaned further over the counter, entering my personal space, and whispered, “Code?”

  The laughter froze in my throat.

  After taking a moment to think, I whispered, “Cherry blossoms.”

  “D.C.” he confirmed. “Give me a minute; I’ll come around,” he said quietly to me.

  That was a surprise.

  Standing off to the side, my hot dog vendor joined me less than a minute later, having shed his messy apron. He approached me with a hot dog and a drink, handed them over, then led me away by the elbow. I reluctantly dumped the hot dog and drink in a garbage can once we had cleared the food court.

  He was at least a foot taller than me and must have weighed 260 pounds; he was all muscle. Dressed in a yellow polo shirt, khaki pants, and Docker shoes, he fit the D.C. area uniform. I could see that he was leading me towards the metro entrance; I knew better than to speak to him while we walked. Occasionally he looked casually back over his shoulder. The third time he checked, I could feel in my gut that we were being followed. Mr. hot dog vendor was serious and sober, watchful and wary.

  He leaned toward me as we walked faster. “Tag,” he said quietly, looking forward.

  I knew the protocol. We had to split up. “How many?” I asked quietly.

  “One that I can see. You take the blue line going into D.C., and I’ll take the yellow line heading the opposite way. Stay safe,” he whispered.

  Looking over at him for just a moment, his face looked serious. He reached up and squeezed my elbow. We reached the entrance to the down escalator, where we immediately split up; I took it alone, heading for the blue metro line.

  I’m on my own now.

  I walked down the escalator as it moved, passing as many people as possible, briskly walking towards the metro card scanner. Thank goodness I had bought a card at the airport when I arrived. Holding it up, the barrier slid open, and I rushed to catch the blue-line train, which had just arrived at the station. I slipped in the doors just before they closed, then exhaled as I looked out the door’s window. No one seemed to be focused on me or trying to follow.

  Maybe he’s on the train with me.

  Sitting in a bench seat near the door, I slumped down as low as possible. The train was a little more than half-full, with people standing. That’ll help disguise me.

  “You’re on the blue line. Next stop, Pentagon station,” the announcer informed us.

  It figures.

  I turned and looked at the metro map above my head and, seeing brochures, quickly grabbed one. Upon opening up the map, I could plan where to go.

  Where can I get lost among a crowd?

  It came to me quickly.

  Union Station…lots of people from the metro, plus the railroad.

  The map showed that I would have to transfer lines twice, to the yellow line and then the red line, but that would be to my benefit if I were to lose an agent tailing me.

  “Coming up to the Pentagon station,” the announcer spoke.

  I prepared to bolt out the door as soon as it opened. The escalator at the station was coming into view. I would have to go up and over to get to the other platform to catch the yellow line. The doors opened, and I popped up and out, running to the escalator, inadvertently bumping a couple as I went. There were only two people ahead of me. After scooting around them, I took the escalator stairs two at a time. As I nearly reached the top, I scanned the terminal behind me, and saw no one in pursuit.

  That’s good, I thought with relief.

  I bolted down the stairs on the other side of the platform, trying to catch the yellow line that was sitting on the tracks. I made the door just in time, nearly catching my bag in the closing door. Looking out the window, I still didn’t see anyone in pursuit.

  Maybe he’s following the hot dog vendor.

  After changing to the red-line platform at the next station, I looked for an agent. During my five-minute wait for the red-line train, I moved all the way up the tunnel to the first car, so that I could keep an eye on new passengers. Just as the metro was arriving, I saw a man rapidly descending the stairs, coming toward my train. He had the look and intensity of an agent. I boarded my train, standing just inside the door, and I could see him enter the metro four cars behind me.

  Oh crap.

  I stood at the metro door looking out, wired by the combination of adrenaline and Mountain Dew on an empty stomach. I kept a close eye on the back of the car.

  With Union Station only two stops away, I reached into my messenger bag and pulled out my Taser, holding it close to my body. Arriving in Union Station, the doors opened, and I hurried off the metro, searching for the agent tailing me. In reflex, I flipped on the Taser.

  Okay so far, I silently encouraged myself.

  After quickly negotiating the crowd, I approached the escalator. Taking the steps two by two, I tried to make my body move as smoothly as possible, so that I wouldn’t attract attention. I kept touching the moving handrail, trying to ground myself, though my heart was nearly beating out of my chest.

  How could they have known?

  After climbing halfway up the escalator, I was blocked by an elderly couple.

  Move…move�
�move, please. I wanted to shout.

  But they didn’t move.

  Looking up to the turn-of-the-century arched ceiling far above me, I tried to relieve my anxiety. With a jerk, the escalator reached the top and dumped me out. I moved around the couple and began to walk as fast as I could, passing through the eighteenth century columns, walking evenly on the marble floor. The main hall was filled with people, all of them busy, seeming to move in every direction at once. I could smell the grease from the food court and felt bile rise up in my throat.

  Focus on the light…focus on the light…you can make it. I coached myself.

  I could see the exits under the three archways directly in front of me. Weaving through the masses, I tried to make my way to the doors. Reaching them, I passed under the centurion statues and pushed past a rush of people going the opposite direction. I collided with a man but pressed forward, still trying to get away.

  After passing through the door, I looked behind me, half expecting to see pursuers. I ran across the loading and unloading lane and was nearly hit by an eager driver. Grateful to reach the brick walkway that surrounded the Christopher Columbus fountain, I stood behind it, breathing deeply. This would block me from the view of anyone in the station.

  Regroup, Ann.

  From behind the fountain, I carefully glanced to the entrance of the station, but my wrist was painfully grabbed from the other side by the crew-cut twenty-something I had bumped into earlier.

  I whipped around and, with my free hand, shoved my Taser into his groin, delivering 2.7 million volts of resistance, while simultaneously yanking my other wrist away as hard as I could. Almost instantly, the man crumpled at my feet, and I sprinted away.

  My mind raced. Where can I go? Panic gripped me, but I tried to think clearly. Kelly’s restaurant. It was only a couple of blocks away, and I could call from there.

  Scrambling across Columbus Circle, I ran west on Massachusetts Avenue.

  It should only take me a couple of minutes… F-street…it’s on F…I think. I knew Brian Kelly, the owner, and a couple of the waiters at Kelly’s Irish Times from my time as a journalist in D.C. If one of them was there getting ready to open for dinner, they would let me in.

  When I saw a break in traffic, I ran across Massachusetts Avenue and glanced to my left to see if anyone was pursuing me.

  All clear.

  After high-tailing it up F-street, I finally reached the green awning marking Kelly’s. I knocked on the door, slowing my breathing, and hoped there was someone there that I knew.

  If I can just get inside, they’ll never think to look for me here with the restaurant closed.

  I knocked for about fifteen seconds, seeming like an eternity, and then saw Brian approach the door wearing a stained white cook’s apron.

  “You know we’re not open for another hour or…Ann, lass. It’s been a while now, hasn’t it? Come on in then,” he said eagerly, opening the door.

  I stepped in and turned once more to see if I was followed. It looked safe.

  Brian closed the door and reached down to hug me with his stocky frame. I could feel his bristly beard on my neck as he briefly squeezed me. He put his pudgy hands on both of my shoulders and peered down to me with his dark eyes.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked. His deep, smooth voice held a note of concern.

  “I’m working on something that’s gotten a little tricky. Do you think I could use your bathroom and make a call?” I asked.

  “Of course. You take all the time you need,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I said gratefully.

  “If you need anything, you come get me,” he said, patting my shoulder, then looking out the window before he locked the front door and walked back toward the kitchen.

  I had known Brian for many years. While I was a reporter he occasionally gave me insider tips on stories I was working on. I knew I could rely on his discretion.

  After making my way to the back of the restaurant, I pulled open the green wooden door of the women’s bathroom. The door looked like it had been painted one too many times. Inside, every available space of the light brown bathroom walls was adorned with plaques bearing Irish platitudes. I set my messenger bag in one of the two vintage sinks and plugged my used Taser into an outlet near the floor. Then I pulled my second Taser from the bag and put it in my coat pocket.

  Standing there at the sink, looking at my reflection in the mirror, I prepared myself to make the call. I needed help.

  I dialed and waited as the cell phone rang three times, “Hi…leave me a….”

  Crap—Bob’s voicemail.

  I tried to consider my options. I could call the clandestine switchboard, but they might already have me flagged. That wouldn’t work.

  I’m a fugitive now. They’re hunting me. They think of me as a weapon. Plus, I just Tasered crew-cut boy. I’m gonna have to go underground now, I thought grimly.

  Reaching into the bag, I pulled out the Ziploc bag containing the last secure cell phone I had. I quickly assembled it, then pressed the timer of my watch.

  I called the local phone number I had memorized.

  “B40 for extraction, code red,” I said urgently upon hearing the beep.

  I hung up and watched my timer. I had four minutes before I had to destroy the phone. I looked up and noticed one of the wall plaques, “May the bearer of the news be safe.”

  No kidding, I thought ironically.

  Thirty seconds later, the call came.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Code?” he asked.

  “Cherry blossoms,” I replied, using the memorized code.

  “D.C.” he confirmed. We’ve got your location. Seven minutes—we’re en route—back alley. Injuries?”

  “No.”

  “Stay safe,” he said, crisp but cautious.

  Hanging up, I looked at my watch to see how long the phone had been traceable.

  Three minutes—maybe they didn’t locate me.

  After pulling the phone apart, I stomped on it, then threw all the pieces in the sink, turning on the faucet. The soft sound of the running water would have been calming in any other situation.

  I restarted my stopwatch. They’ll be here in seven minutes. Grabbing the pieces of the cell phone from the sink, I tossed them back into the Ziploc and threw the bag in the empty trashcan, covering it with some clean paper towels.

  I have to stay here…they won’t be able to find me if I leave, since that was my only safe phone.

  Three minutes.

  Pounding on the front door of the restaurant sent a buzz of adrenaline through me. They found me.

  I quickly grabbed the recharging Taser from the wall and tossed it into my messenger bag, which I draped across my body, freeing my hands. Slowly opening the bathroom door, I slipped into the dark back hall. I could hear Brian’s deep, full voice from the next room.

  “Can I help you?” he asked coldly.

  “FBI,” said a male voice. “We’re looking for a woman that’s in this area, about 5′9″, Caucasian, mid-forties. Seen her?”

  Brian didn’t hesitate. “We’re closed, haven’t opened for dinner yet.”

  Silently thanking Brian, I moved down the narrow hall toward the battered, brown service door. Touching the button for light on my watch, I checked the time. Less than two minutes. I tried not to panic, though adrenaline was tingling through me in rushing bolts.

  The conversation between them was so distant that I couldn’t hear it. Preparing myself to open the door, I pulled the second Taser from my pocket, looped the strap around my wrist, and instinctively pushed the button to turn it on. If anyone tried to grab it from me, the loop would pull out the arming pin, disabling it.

  Turning the dented brass knob, I pushed open the back door slightly, peering out into the alley. My eyes fell upon an overflowing dumpster for a brief second, then the door was yanked open from the outside. I turned to run, but a crew-cut clone grabbed me by the hair. I twisted around and wa
s able to jam the Taser into his exposed armpit, and he fell to the ground, convulsing with a heavy thud. As my hair was released, a black SUV rounded the corner of the alley.

  As I ran for it, I quickly looked back. The agent wasn’t moving. If he wasn’t moving, he couldn’t call for backup. Ten more feet, and I reached the SUV. The back door flung open. An arm reached out to pull me in. The arm was that of my hot dog vendor.

  Chapter 17

  WASHINGTON D.C.

  The Year 2015

  I took his hand, and hot dog man briskly pulled me in, then immediately pulled the door closed.

  “Go!” he called out to the driver.

  While I hung on, the driver slammed the SUV into reverse and was out of the alley in a flash. She shifted to forward and floored the accelerator, as my new friend surveyed the area for threats. I breathed in and out, adrenaline rushing through my body, creating a hyper-alertness as I rubbed my head where the agent had pulled out some of my hair.

  When it was clear we were not being pursued, the man with the round black eyes held out his hand in introduction. “Calvin,” he said simply.

  I shook it, businesslike. “Ann,” I replied in kind. “You got here just in time.”

  “It looked to me like you had everything under control,” Calvin said with a smile.

  “Silence till the safe house,” the driver barked before I could reply.

  Calvin rolled his eyes at me playfully, as if this happened all the time.

  The driver had long, shiny black hair pulled back into a ponytail, was dressed in black from head to toe, and had what I guessed was a GLOCK strapped across her. Having full control of the SUV, she negotiated successfully through traffic as we headed toward 395, which would take us over the Fourteenth Street Bridge, crossing the Potomac River into Virginia. I was grateful for the sunny, cloudless day.

  Twenty minutes later, we pulled off the 395 freeway, heading into Arlington into a residential area of older colonial homes. Two blocks after that, we were stopped in front of a nondescript two-story colonial.

  “Inside, while I stash this,” she said, commanding and glacial, glancing at us through the rear-view mirror.