“As you know, Joe, we don't have a hell of a lot of time. Today is October 22. Thanksgiving is just over a month away, and we're not out of the woods yet. We still have to locate the bombs. The sketch that Janice made from your recollections is an enormous help, but we still have to locate the weapons. When we do find them, it will be your memory and Janice’s sketch that nails it. ”
I felt good, proud even. For years I used my knowledge to plan the destruction of my country. Now I'm helping to save it.
“Before I go,” said Buster, “there's somebody I'd like you to meet.”
Chapter 29
“Joe, I'd like to introduce Frank Thompson, Rear Admiral, United States Navy.”
I looked at the man and shook his extended hand. My face felt numb and my heart pounded like a speedboat crashing over waves. I began to perspire, so I reached for a handful of napkins and blotted the sweat from my face. In my life, I've never experienced an episode of syncope or feinting, but the strangest feeling washed over me, and I felt myself starting to lose consciousness. Buster reached over and waved smelling salts under my nose as if he expected my reaction.
“I'll leave you folks to chat,” said Buster as he walked out the door.
***
“Sheik Abboud,” I mumbled, “Sheik Ayham Abboud.”
“Hello, Joe, nice to see you. I didn't think you'd recognize me without the beard.”
That deep sonorous baritone voice was there. Those intense, gazing eyes. His height, his build, even his handshake. All except the beard, and of course, the turban. It's hard to describe how I felt, sort of like walking into a room and seeing a purple elephant dancing with a unicorn.
“Did he say you're an Admiral, an American Navy Admiral?”
“Yes he did, and yes I am. United States Naval Academy, class of 1991. Mind if I have a sandwich, I'm famished.”
Sheik Thompson or Admiral Abboud, whatever, reached for the remaining ham wrap.
“My legs are shackled to the floor, Sir,” I said, “would you mind getting me some paper towels with cold water.”
“Sure thing, Joe. Here you are. By the way, just call me Frank.”
“I've known you for 20 years, Frank (God that feels so weird to say) but I just met you three minutes ago. I feel like my head is going to explode.”
“Okay, Joe, I think it's obvious that you would like an explanation. I'm what is known as a mole, a deeply imbedded spy. CIA Director Carlini insists that I'm the deepest mole in American history. The U.S. intelligence apparatus, including the CIA, FBI, Naval Intelligence, and just about every other intelligence agency came to a conclusion in the early 90s, shortly after the first bombing of the World Trade Center, that we needed to get inside al Qaeda, deeply inside. We were up against, and obviously still are, an enemy we never knew before, a secretive enemy that chalks up as political success the killing of innocent human beings. Because my appearance is Middle Eastern, owing to my Lebanese mother, I was tapped to be the deep spy, the mole. I was a naval officer on loan to the CIA.”
“Were you a CIA operative when I first met you in 1994?” I asked.
“Yes, Joe, I was.”
“But Sheik, Frank, whatever, you were one of the people who indoctrinated us. You really seemed to believe what you were saying. Are you telling me now that it was all an act?”
“Yes, Joe, it was an act. It was just like the naval officer act you've been practicing for the past 20 years. We were quite familiar with The Center for Open-Minded Youth for many years. It was, and is, I think you'll agree, a brainwashing operation, the purpose of which is to indoctrinate kids like you and your friends were in 1994. And make no mistake about it, The Center for Open-Minded Youth works. I'm going to tell you a small part of something that's deeply classified, something we've been studying for years. Here it goes: of the people who have been labeled domestic terrorists by the government, 80 percent of them came through indoctrination at The Center for Open-Minded Youth. Yup, 80 percent of our home-grown radicals got their basic training at that lovely school in Riyadh. You'd recognize a lot of the names, but I can't tell you any of them because it's Top Secret. Many of them have been killed over the years, and a lot more are in prison.”
“But you seemed so committed,” I said. “You seemed to believe the things you told us.”
“As I said, Joe, I was trained to act. The purpose of my mission was to take a small group of kids and groom them for something big. By doing that, we hoped to shine a bright light on al Qaeda's plans for major operations, operations such as the Thanksgiving Attacks. And we succeeded, to a degree. The Thanksgiving Attacks on the ships, as you well know, were stopped. I also know that you planned to try to stop them before you were arrested.”
“How could you possibly know that?” I said. “It's true, but how could you have possibly known?”
“Joe, you've met Buster, a good man and a great spy. But I promise you, you've never met a spook like me. I know things about you that you probably don't know yourself. And yes, I intend to let my knowledge of your plans be known in a Top Secret court hearing. I'm certain that your sentence will be commuted, whatever the sentence will be. You've redeemed yourself, Joe Monahan. You're a good American.”
“So I was a tool, the only good way to put it.”
“Exactly, Joe, an unwitting tool. But if I may, I will take credit for your being alive. If it weren't for me and the CIA's big plan to uncover a major plot, you probably would have been one of the people killed or captured. By now, you'd be either dead or in Guantanamo.”
“Frank, my mind is a fucking jumble, pardon my Arabic. I've heard recently that the only reason people knew about the Thanksgiving Attacks came from the research that a reporter named Jack Thurber uncovered. I've heard, and this sounds insane, that he time traveled, yes time traveled into the future and found out that the five ships had been destroyed, that the Thanksgiving Attacks did occur.”
“Joe, I've met Jack Thurber and I know his wife, who was your commanding officer, quite well. He's got a great reputation, and for a lot of reasons some people in high places believe that he's time traveled. His wife, Captain Patterson, calls him The Time Magnet. It seems that this Jack Thurber has turned the phenomenon of time travel into a tool of espionage, and it's not just airy fairy fiction.”
“How can you say it's not fiction?”
“I've done it myself, Joe. I've been to the future and learned of Plan B, the attacks that are planned on American cities. I've been to a future where those attacks were actually history.”
“So did I participate in the attacks on the American ships?”
“Joe, in some alternate universe, maybe. A lot of people have experienced time travel recently, but I don't think any of us really understands it. But all I know is the Joe Monahan sitting in front of me, the Joe Monahan who cooperated so much with Buster, is Joe Monahan, the good guy, the patriot. We're gonna stop this thing, Joe.”
Chapter 30
Janice here.
After all this lunacy is over, I think I'm going to write a novel, if only to create a reality that seems like it makes sense. I'm going to create a bunch of likeable characters who do things like shop for groceries, get flat tires, catch colds, and watch TV. They're all going to have engaging personalities and nice senses of humor, but they'll all be somewhat boring. The most dramatic plot point you're likely to see is who found the lost beagle. Hey, that would make an interesting series, Nancy Delancy, Beagle Hunter. Nancy Delancy, you see, runs a beagle rescue shelter in Peoria, Illinois. She meets a handsome young man one day who is almost in tears. It seems his pet beagle, Phred, which he adopted from the shelter a month earlier, isn't housebroken, and the handsome young man is beside himself. Nancy, realizing that the clock is ticking, springs into action to solve the crisis, and maybe get a date with Mr. Handsome. A neat and exciting plot twist is just when Nancy thinks Phred has learned his manners, the handsome young man discovers that Phred has been taking clandestine poops under the furniture all t
he while. Can you feel the tension?
Yes, those are the kind of stories I want to write, ordinary people with everyday problems, with no need for Maalox.
And the one thing my characters will never, ever do, is fucking time travel. And the books will contain no profanity.
So yesterday gets added to my growing collection of amazing days. I actually met my imprisoned husband Joe, who I have been referring to recently, and somewhat unfairly, as a murdering scumbag. It really seems like he's turned a corner, more like a complete about-face.
Until a few months ago he was a bloodthirsty creepy jihadi. Now he's an emotionally open guy who wants to set things straight and divulge all sorts of important intelligence to help his country. This is good, because our country faces a possible nuclear disaster in less than a month.
So I'm happy that I no longer hate my soon to be ex-husband. I will no longer call him a scumbag. But time has passed, and our time together has passed.
Chapter 31
I was in an editorial meeting at The Washington Times, when my beeper went off.
“Hi Buster, it's Jack. What's up?”
“Jack, I need you here at Langley, NOW.”
“Buster, I know it's only about 10 miles, but traffic is wicked this morning. It may take me 45 minutes or more.”
“Jack, look out the window and tell me what you see.”
“Well, the big lawn in front of the building.”
“Anything going on, Jack?”
“Well, now that you mention it, there's a helicopter landing on the lawn.”
“The chopper's for you, Jack. I'll see you in about ten minutes – Director Carlini's office.”
***
I walked through the main entrance to the CIA building and was met by Buster himself. We cleared the security check points easily. Buster has a lot of sway around here. He looked nervous, and I can't blame him. He's the lead agent on this mission, probably the most important mission any CIA agent ever faced. Buster and I walked into his small office. He's an extremely neat guy. His desk is empty of paper, with only a single folder on top. As Buster always likes to tell us, a clean desk is like a clean deck, always ready for action.
“Jack, I need you to write a news article now, actually faster than now. It needs to be over your by-line.”
“And the subject is?” I asked.
“Joseph Monahan. We just took him from Leavenworth this morning and brought him here. Jack, what I'm telling you is Top Secret. We're sure that Monahan's got a target painted on his back. We found out that he was a senior guy in the planned attacks. We know it, but more importantly, al Qaeda knows it. So here's what your article will be about. Monahan was killed by a fellow prisoner, the name of which your source did not disclose. He was stabbed while returning to his cell after breakfast by a man with a make-shift knife. The reason for the article should be obvious to you. We want al Qaeda to think Monahan's dead so they don't try to kill him. He's secure here, but we don't want to take any chances at all.”
“Buster, you're asking me to lie in a newspaper, and lie over my own by-line no less.”
“No, Jack, I'm not asking you, Mr. Provisional CIA Agent, I'm telling you. I'm sure journalistic ethics includes a reporter doing everything possible to save his country when it's in danger. Monahan is valuable, to say the least. He's come over to our side and he's giving us an unbelievable amount of intelligence. We may have to take him on the road at some point. Keeping him safe is our highest priority. To make it easier on you, I will have two of my operatives corroborate the story, so you can console yourself that you checked additional sources.”
Buster's a persuasive guy. His position, and mine as a provisional agent, puts him in a direct line of authority over me. If I refuse, he can probably have me arrested and locked up. But that's beside the point. He's right. This is no time for me to worry about protecting my reputation. If putting out misinformation gets us closer to a solution, I'll do it.
“Get me to a computer terminal, Buster.”
***
“Would-be Thanksgiving Bomber Killed in Prison”
Jack Thurber for The Washington Times
Joseph Monahan, one of the five American naval officers implicated in the plot to bomb American ships with nuclear weapons on Thanksgiving Day, has been killed. He was returning to his cell at Leavenworth prison after breakfast when he was attacked by an unknown man wielding a home-made knife.
Monahan was the weapons officer on the USS Abraham Lincoln. (full disclosure: Captain Ashley Patterson, the Commanding Officer of the Lincoln, is my wife).
The four other naval officers implicated in the Thanksgiving plot are Ralph Martin of the USS Carl Vinson, Philip Murphy of the USS George Washington, Frederick Peyton of the USS Theodore Roosevelt, and George Quentin of the USS Harry Truman.
A spokesman for the Central Intelligence Agency said he could not identify the killer at this point, and the CIA doesn't know if al Qaeda or any other terrorist organization was implicated.
Monahan is survived by his estranged wife, Janice Monahan, who had brought divorce proceedings. Efforts to get a statement from Mrs. Monahan were unsuccessful.
“Buster, this won't work.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Everybody knows that I was supposed to be on the USS Lincoln on Thanksgiving Day. Anybody reading this will know that I'm not a disinterested reporter. I put in that ‘full disclosure’ bit to make it more believable, but I don't think the piece will accomplish what we want. Al Qaeda will smell a rat if they see my name.”
“Okay,” said Buster, “you have a point. Any ideas?”
“Simple,” I said. “Wally Burton. He's here in Virginia on temporary assignment from The New York Times. As you know, he's also a provisional CIA agent. But you don't even have to ask Wally to lie. Just tell him the lie yourself and give him the contact information for the two
operatives who will corroborate the story. Just tell him that Monahan was killed. To save time, you can give him the article I just wrote. He'll make his changes and file it immediately with the Times.
“Great thinking, Jack. You'd make a good spook.”
Buster called Wally's office and sent him the story I wrote by encrypted email.
Wally rewrote the article, as would any good reporter. The New York Times piece reads:
“Would-be Bomber Joseph Monahan Killed in Prison”
Wallace Burton for The New York Times
Joseph Monahan, a former Lieutenant Commander in the United States Navy, and one of the five American naval officers implicated in the plot to bomb American ships with nuclear weapons on Thanksgiving Day, has been killed. He had been imprisoned at the high security prison at Leavenworth, Kansas. While was returning to his cell after breakfast he was attacked by an unknown man wielding a make-shift knife. He was dead upon arrival at the prison hospital.
Monahan was the weapons officer on the USS Abraham Lincoln, one of five American aircraft carriers that was targeted to be bombed on Thanksgiving Day, in a terrorist operation that has become known as the Thanksgiving Attacks.
The four other naval officers implicated in the Thanksgiving plot are Ralph Martin of the USS Carl Vinson, Philip Murphy of the USS George Washington, Frederick Peyton of the USS Theodore Roosevelt, and George Quentin of the USS Harry Truman.
A spokesman for the Central Intelligence Agency said he could not identify the killer at this point, and the CIA doesn't know if al Qaeda or any other terrorist organization was implicated. Calls to the FBI have not been returned, nor have attempts to contact the Office of Naval Intelligence.
Monahan is survived by his estranged wife, Janice Monahan, who had brought divorce proceedings. Efforts to get a statement from Mrs. Monahan were unsuccessful.
The story appeared within 20 minutes in the online version of the Times, and will be a headline in tomorrow's paper edition. Within minutes, all of the major networks and cable stations reported the story. As far as the world knows, Joe Monahan is
a dead man.
Chapter 32
I can't believe that I'm about to meet with my soon-to-be ex-husband again. Admiral Frank thought it was essential that he speak to Joe in my presence, even though they had already met. Frank told me that because Joe is so important to the mission, he didn't want to take any chances that he may rethink anything. Frank believes my presence will help Joe get his mind centered. I don't get it, but who am I to argue with an admiral, especially a tall, good looking one.
The interrogation room at the CIA was nicer than the one at Leavenworth. It was similar, but the furniture and flooring were much newer and more comfortable. I wonder if there's a course in architecture schools on designing interrogation rooms. Make sure the gigantic one-way mirror is inconspicuous so the prisoner won't suspect it's a mirror.
When Frank and I entered the room, Joe was already seated. His legs were shackled to the floor but his hands were free. As usual, I was feeling uncomfortable, so I figured I'd break the ice by asking Joe if he would like some coffee.
“Joe,” said Frank, “I asked Janice to join us this afternoon, because she may be able to help you remember some things. I have no idea what they may be, but the human memory often needs some help.”
“That's fine by me, Frank,” Joe said. “I feel sad about what I did to this beautiful woman I lost, but it's great to see her again.”
I guess I was supposed to comment on his remark. I said nothing
“Joe, Can you tell us about some of the participants in the plot, the people who work at the bomb plant?”
Box Set - The Time Magnet Series Page 46