The Temporal

by CJ Martín

  Then came another voice from the end of the bookcase.

  “Sam?” It was Suteko, the real Suteko. Not caring for library protocol, she raised her voice. “Sam!”

  The woman in front of Sam released her masking energy. Her long, black hair became, in an instant, curls of bright red. Asian eyes enlarged and turned nearly as red as her hair. The enemy jerked her right hand, releasing a flash of metal from within the cuffs of her jacket. The blade, once firmly in place between her thumb and two fingers, flew from her hand with the slightest flick of her wrist.

  Suteko managed to slow time enough to see and anticipate the flying metal’s path. She took a book from the shelf and positioned it to catch the flying object. The knife bored into the book until its sharp point pierced the back cardboard and leather cover and stopped. She tossed the book aside and was in front of her enemy before the book hit the ground.

  The red-headed woman attacked first. Her right hand rebounded from flinging the knife and was instantly swinging back toward Suteko’s face. Tightening her fingers into a fist, the creature’s attack became a powerful backhand.

  Suteko saw the direction of the incoming backhand. With her arm, Suteko blocked the woman’s attack and, after slowing the blow, she slid her hand down to the red-headed woman’s wrist.

  Grabbing the attacker’s wrist with both of her hands, Suteko twisted with all the strength she could muster. She knew that controlling the wrist yields control of the body. With a push downward, Suteko would have the woman on her knees and under her control as long as she continued with her fleshy body.

  The red-headed woman must have realized her wrist was in a compromising position. She screamed loud enough for Suteko to feel the force being expelled from her mouth. The distraction was enough for the woman to free her hand. She pushed off her legs and leaped into the air, flying above Suteko’s head and kicking off the metal rods of the ceiling. Large squares of ceiling tiles fell on Sam and Suteko as she made her escape.

  A number of people who had appeared to gawk down the bookcase row now found themselves on the floor having been knocked down by the fleeing woman.

  Sam and Suteko wasted no time. After making sure no one was seriously injured, they rushed downstairs and out the door. It was pitch-black outside and the red-haired woman was nowhere in sight.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize her!” Sam shouted into the empty evening air. It was clear the woman was gone.

  Suteko put a shaking, but loving hand on his shoulder that helped ease the anger out.

  “Suteko,” he said, turning his full attention to her. “I knew she was there in the library. I… I was just blinded by the thought of being with you.” He took her hands in his.

  She soothed his mind with a kiss to his cheek.

  “Sam, I managed to get John. He is on his way to the old man now. I hope to hear from Marcus within the hour.”

  Chapter 32

  McGregor’s information regarding “the Strangler” was more thorough than he had lead the FBI agents to believe. While it did not include a physical address or phone number, he had catalogued an impressive list of IP addresses and aliases the Strangler had used recently online. By cross-referencing various Islamic related forum posts, it became increasingly obvious that the Strangler was Abdul “Mike” Hamid—a man very familiar to the Arabic speaking cyber-spies in the Bureau.

  Within an hour, the Strangler was in custody. Initially reticent, Hamid opened up when shown evidence compiled from McGregor’s file and the Bureau’s own investigation. He named names and listed cities—the same cities as in the Los Angeles Times article, but swore he had no more detailed information.

  Four of the five cities Hamid mentioned had obvious or high-profile targets. The last day of a US-Israeli convention, a Holocaust museum opening, a national conference for a mega-church that had been a bit too public about their support for Israel, and a reelection rally for President Franklin. DC, on the other hand, was a terrorist wonderland of targets. Housing all three seats of government and many tourist traps, the bomb could be anywhere in the city.

  From the FBI’s perspective, the article by the Los Angeles Times listing cities with potential bombs had been a unmitigated disaster, nigh short of treasonous. Citizens were panicking. Accidents and looting were epidemic as many residents of the cities on the list scrambled to leave. The only positive result was most of the high-target events had been subsequently cancelled. Even if all the bombs couldn’t be found, it was hoped the number of casualties would remain low.

  By studying the location of the New Orleans bomb and its distance from the target, federal, state, and local authorities in each of the five cities began a massive Easter egg hunt. One by one, the bombs were discovered. All of them, but the one in DC.

  The Strangler suddenly remembered details of the DC location when loaded up into a van by two agents wearing gas masks. He was told they were going to the opening of the Rwanda genocide remembrance at the Holocaust museum in Richmond. Loud enough for Mr. Hamid to hear, the two agents were told to take him to the location, chain him to the railing in front of the museum, and then leave. The bomb had already been found and dealt with, of course, but the Strangler did not know that.

  The DC target turned out to be a small protest rally for energy independence that was to take place in front of the Lincoln Memorial. In a thick bunch of shrubbery, capital police discovered a small box that was set to spew out its poison into the lungs of tourists and protestors.

  Once the canisters had all been secured, the government sent messages to media outlets emphasizing that while the threats had been credible, all bombs had been accounted for. The Strangler, after being presented with carrots and severe sticks depending on the verity of his information, confirmed that all bombs had indeed been found.

  Americans were still warned to be extra vigilant, particularly over the next twenty-four hours. One government official let slip that a professor from a community college outside San Francisco had been responsible for stopping the threats.

  No name was given, but the wheels had been set in motion.

  Chapter 33

  Sam and Suteko spent the rest of the evening listening to the echoes and searching for the red-headed woman. Sam had indeed felt her presence in the library and that evil had been very near. But he had been fooled by her appearance, disarmed by what he thought to be the woman he cared about more than any other.

  Had he looked at the woman close enough, he would have seen minute modulations in color and texture. Morphing was not a perfect representation; it did not need to be. Politeness and social mores can work against the good; after recognizing someone, few give others more than a cursory glance. “We can’t let this happen again,” Suteko said shortly after they realized the red-headed woman was no longer in the vicinity. “If we are ever separated, even for a minute, we need to have some code to prove we are who we appear to be.”

  Sam agreed and they quickly decided upon a signal. Sam would say, “Hello.” Suteko would respond with “Kitty. Seven.” After which, Sam would say, “Samurai.” It was silly, easy to remember, and impossible to guess.

  Sometime early in the morning, Suteko and Sam decided to stop at a corner restaurant for some breakfast. While Sam was sipping coffee and deciding between pancakes or scrambled eggs, Suteko’s attention was fixed on the television on a wall.

  “Sam,” she said, placing her hand on his arm, pulling his thoughts away from food.

  “Listen, Sam.” She nodded toward the television. Two newscasters were talking on a couch on some informal morning news show. Despite the casual setting, they had serious, yet somewhat forced cheerful expressions.

  “…will be a press conference at ten this morning,” said the male announcer.

  Behind the two announcers, a series of monitors were silently playing video from the New Orleans bombing. A marquee scrolled at the bottom of the screen reading, “BREAKING NEWS—A second terrorist cell has been broken up by the FBI...”
>
  “And that will be at the Los Angeles Conference Center,” said the woman dressed in a suit with an unusually large flower pinned to her pocket.

  “That’s right, Jane. America will finally get to meet its hero. The mystery hero will reveal himself.”

  The camera cut to a close-up of the woman.

  “Representatives from federal law enforcement agencies have stressed that they do not think this press conference is a good idea. While stopping short of legally restraining him, they are none too happy about it.”

  The camera returned to a wide-pan. The muted video behind them was now showing the president silently answering questions from the press.

  “That’s right. If it is true that he single-handedly gave the authorities the intel to bring down several terrorist cells—and that that information not only led to the arrests of dozens of terrorists, but also disrupted tens of millions of dollars from their operations—revealing himself may not be the smartest move, Jane.”

  “Especially if they fail to find and stop all the bombs that were reputedly placed by these cells.”

  The marquee continued with, “Bombs discovered in all cities mentioned by Los Angeles Times article. It is believed all bombs have been found and disarmed...”

  “That’s correct. This move could be seen as someone putting personal fame over the safety of others. Authorities are playing down any remaining danger and they are urging everyone to remain calm, but there is still a case for Americans everywhere to be extra vigilant and…”

  “Sam,” Suteko said, splitting his attention between the television and her. “If we leave right now, we can get to the news conference in time.”

  Sam nodded. After paying the check for their coffee, he followed Suteko outside. She had already found a taxi.

  Sam and Suteko walked briskly down the hall to the conference room where the interview was being held. It was a quarter after ten and the press conference had already begun. The room was large, but with the number of reporters and equipment in the room, it seemed small, stuffy, and hot.

  They could hear laughter as Suteko pushed open the door.

  “Thanks, Bill—from the Times. I’ll have to remember that one,” said the man behind the podium, the hero.

  There was more laughter.

  “Maybe…” the man said, allowing his eyeglasses to slide down his nose slightly. He peered out across the room, searching for a reporter to call on. His eyes fell upon a blonde whose name he had made a point to remember; he had plans to offer her an exclusive one-on-one interview. “Let’s see. Heidi Braun, from Der Spiegel.”

  “The guy sounds more like a polished White House Press Secretary than your average concerned citizen,” said Sam to Suteko in a whisper.

  “Have they announced his name yet?”

  Sam halted a moment before answering, “There’s something familiar.” He turned to face Suteko. “I think he was in my dreams. Do you remember seeing him before?”

  She turned back to the man at the podium and gently shook her head back and forth. “No.”

  Sam mentally replayed his dreams, but despite the familiarity of the speaker’s face, he could not remember dreaming of the man. No, Sam had seen him somewhere else... Not in a dream.

  “How did you warm up to Fakhr…” shouted the reporter next to Sam.

  “Fakhr al Din. Yes, well, as you know, I spent many years honing my Arabic pronunciation. One of his brothers was my conversation partner on a learn Arabic website. Once I found that out, I kept pressing him to introduce us. Finally, he did.”

  “Suteko. I remember.”

  He turned to her and recalled the nervous little man that had pressed the panic button on the bomb in New Orleans. That man bore only the slightest resemblance to the confident lion of a man now standing behind the podium, but Sam was absolutely certain.

  “McGregor. Suteko, that is McGregor.”

  Something about Sam and Suteko’s suddenly ashen faces caused McGregor to notice them. With a shriek and a pointing finger, McGregor shouted into the microphone.

  “Them. Those two! They were involved in the plot. Stop them!”

  They were still in the back of the room, but at least a dozen reporters and a few police were behind them, blocking their exit. Somehow everyone in the room seemed to understand exactly who McGregor was pointing at.

  Suteko grabbed Sam as she had moments after the explosion in New Orleans. Time didn’t stop, but it wasn’t normal either. It seemed to speed up and then dramatically slow as if someone accidentally pressed fast-forward and then over-corrected by pressing rewind a few times more than intended.

  A uniformed police officer had his eyes locked on them and was heading their way. His motions were incredibly slow, but his hand was at his side, touching his holster.

  Suteko shook Sam and said, “Go!”

  Sam nodded that he understood but remained still, fascinated by the eerie scene unfolding around him. There were over a hundred people in the room and in each, he sensed a restless panic and rage. His senses were heightened too. He seemed to be able to actually smell the fear and feel the anger.

  An anger that was directed at him.

  A large man next to Sam was slowly raising his arms and positioning his legs in a clear attempt to tackle Sam. The whole slow-motion action seemed comical to Sam. He just stood there dumbfounded until he felt the hand of someone touching him from behind and it was not Suteko.

  Sam then realized what Suteko had said and turned on his heels, slapping the man’s fat hand down as he would swat a fly.

  Then, the most extraordinary thing happened.

  The man’s arm and body reacted to Sam’s slap within Sam’s time. The man who had overextended himself, followed the direction that Sam’s hand had sent him, twisting his torso to the left and then straight down.

  In a matter of seconds, his stiff body fell into several people beside him. Like a bowling ball hitting stationary pins, the man’s body knocked over two people who, in turn, hit others. People were falling too fast for their minds and bodies to prepare. Wrists would be broken; people’s faces would smash into the floor. They wouldn’t be able to comprehend what had occurred from their perspective in time. And there was nothing Sam or Suteko could do to stop it.

  Suteko grabbed Sam’s hand and, carefully maneuvering around the people, pulled him outside before allowing time to return to its normal flow.

  Perhaps it was because of the attempt on McGregor’s life. Or perhaps it was because the public liked a man who seemed to have all the answers. After the press conference that was interrupted by two terrorists, he became an instant star. The nearly one hundred reporters who witnessed the event, saturated the evening news.

  They all said the same thing. Two assassins had come for McGregor. When he called them out in the crowd, they went berserk as they fled. These dangerous terrorists had used the panic and general confusion to their advantage. Dozens of people were injured—two hospitalized although later released. But thankfully, the reporters all concluded, McGregor was able to escape unharmed.

  He made consecutive appearances on the evening news shows and a late night comedy show. Even with the constant publicity and hectic media schedule, he seemed just as perky during the early morning news interviews.

  The FBI agents who had originally met him had highly recommended that he deny any knowledge or involvement considering his close ties with those responsible. These people were murderers who had wanted to kill hundreds if not thousands of Americans. It was certain that these terrorists would not hesitate to kill him. The talking heads concluded that the FBI’s warning had proved prophetic at the press conference.

  But even after escaping death, McGregor dismissed their concerns in interviews saying that “dying in truth was far better than living a lie.” It was a quote that was on everyone’s lips for the next few days.

  As the days passed and it gradually became clear that all of the bombs had indeed been found and disarmed. McGregor, now thoroughly
covered by the media and adored by the American public, was invited to the White House for a meeting with President Franklin and Vice-President Hollenbeck.

  Chapter 34

  “What happened back there?” Sam was out of breath but glad to be alive.

  “I tried to slow time, but I wasn’t able to do it well enough.”

  Sam was constantly amazed at Suteko and what she could do. But perhaps even more amazing was her talk of manipulating the flow of time didn’t unnerve him at all anymore, not until he stopped to think about it.

  “You’ve got to teach me that trick.”

  She smiled and then shook her head. “I really don’t know. I just concentrate on the present and visualize it as a sphere. Then, I try to grab it. Once I do, I hold on to it.”

  “You did a great job in New Orleans.”

  “Yes, I can’t explain it, but in New Orleans I felt as if I ought to have stopped time. And it did—we seemed to have been completely outside time.”

  “Can all of the Temporal do this?” Sam asked as he wondered what it would feel like to visualize the present.

  “I assume. The old man told me slowing time was possible, and although I’ve only done it a few times in my life, it...”

  The phone in Suteko’s pocket began to vibrate. She pulled it out and motioned for Sam to lean in to hear too. It was John’s phone number—Suteko’s friend and the one way to contact Marcus. Suteko had assured John earlier that her cell was clean and untraceable.

  “Suteko, this is Marcus. I need for you two to stay where you are or get someplace safe near your current location. Don’t attempt any public transportation or use any form of communication until I arrive. Send your location by post to our agreed upon PO Box.”