by CJ Martín
Furrowing his brow and spreading his arms out to indicate a question, Sam mouthed, “Is this the real old man?” The woman in the library had sounded exactly like Suteko.
Suteko nodded and held up a finger.
“Marcus. There was a Nephloc with the ability to change its appearance and mimic voices. It tricked Sam into thinking it was me last night. I must ask you a question to verify your identity before giving you our current position.”
“Understood. Go ahead.”
“In 1936, I gave you a present which you proceeded to throw out the window. What was it?”
“Not this again.” The voice sounded aggravated and ornery but insistent on being heard out. “Shall I buy you an antique radio? How many times do I need to apologize?”
“Oh, Marcus. Just one more time. Always, one more time.”
“Now look, you know good and well that I had serious concerns regarding radio waves and personal health back then. The technology was new and untested!”
Suteko leaned over to Sam and whispered, “He believed radio waves floating around the ether simply wasn’t natural.”
“And furthermore...”
“Okay, Marcus, dear old Marcus, I know you when I hear you.”
Sam could see in Suteko’s honest smile that she was enjoying this. As for Marcus, Sam wasn’t too sure.
“Suteko... John is dead.”
“Wait,” Suteko stammered, not sure how to get out the words. “John is dead?”
“Yes. It is imperative that you get...”
“Stop. Wait. What happened? How did John die?”
“It was made to look like a suicide.”
“That woman,” Sam said suddenly realizing his carelessness had caused John Matthews’ death. She had learned of John’s existence in the library through him.
“We are getting too close and they wish to stop us. And I was just informed that the hero who helped the FBI stop the bombs was none other than Todd McGregor.”
“Yes,” Suteko said. “We were at that press conference. I don’t know how he survived. Sam saw him shot and his proximity to the bomb meant he would have had a large exposure to the chemicals it released. This has to have something to do with their plan. But why go through the trouble of setting up bombs if they didn’t intend to explode them?”
“A diversion and a way to put their man in the spotlight. Remember the Nephloc crave followers; dead humans are no good to them. I have an idea, but I must find out something before I say anything further.”
“When can we meet?” asked Suteko. Sam could see the worry on her face.
“Soon. I will meet you as soon as I can. It could be upwards of a month. But stay low, safe, and out of the spotlight. Use Sam to watch for me. He should be able to know where I am.”
“How? How did you know he could do that? I didn’t...”
Sam put his hand on her arm. “The old man was the one who discovered that I had this gift... or curse or whatever it is. He asked me to not reveal it to anyone, not even you.”
She nodded as if she understood.
“Okay, Marcus. We’ll stay low and wait for your arrival.”
“Marcus,” Sam spoke with great hesitation. “I... I’m afraid John’s death is my fault.”
Suteko turned her head at Sam’s words.
“The creature in the library—when I thought she was Suteko—asked for a list of the Temporal. I only gave her a few names before I grew suspicious, but one of the names was John Matthews.”
“I see. And what other names did you speak?”
“I... I can’t remember. One or two of the others in North America—maybe all of them. I... just... can’t...”
“Yes, you can,” said Marcus in a tone more unnerving than encouraging. “You can remember and you will. Their lives are at stake.”
“I know.” Sam was trembling under the weight of the realization that he had aided a murderer.
Suteko put her arms around him and the trembling stopped.
“I mentioned your name, but of course she already knew your location. I told her John was in Brooklyn. The man in Houston and the woman in Florida. That’s it. I’m sure of it.”
“Good boy. I will warn them immediately. I do not know the woman in Florida, but I have contacts I trust in Orlando. They will approach her and warn her.” After a pause, he added, “And Sam, if she is who I think she is, deception is all she knows. She is seduction and trickery incarnate. It was not your fault. Stay safe. Stay in the light and await my appearance.”
Chapter 35
BUSHEHR, SYRIA
Fakhr al Din stumbled down an unlit alley. He fell onto the rough pavement, blindly tripping over some metallic object. His foot sent the object clanging into the darkness. His left hand landed on something soft. A thick viscous substance oozed between his fingers; he jerked the hand away in disgust. As he stood, he wiped his sticky left hand on his pants and then gave it a good shake in the air. The nearest streetlamp barely penetrated this far into the alley, but as his eyes adjusted, he saw that the soft object on the street was a cat; a dead cat with its guts poured out on the ground and now dripping from his hands and his pants.
He had been in hiding since the video surfaced of him admitting involvement in the plot well before the bombs were to go off. He had received death threats for giving the Americans time to successfully discover the bombs. Many had accused him of simply wanting to garner personal fame at the expense of the cause.
The video also showed him revealing the nickname of the man in charge of the operation—the Strangler. Because of this video, the entire operation had been compromised and one of the Warriors of the Sword deep within enemy territory was in danger of being captured—if he hadn’t been already. If that happened, much could be lost. He feared the plot had already totally unraveled.
The only success was in New Orleans. But that bomb had gone off prematurely and the casualty list included only two enemy names.
What was most infuriating to Fakhr al Din… it was not him in the video.
It was a look-alike who sounded remarkably like him. Not only was the video all over the internet, but also all the news sites were reporting the CIA had compared voiceprints from previously known recordings of Fakhr al Din and they had confirmed the voice in the Skype recording was a 98.6% match, a statistical certainty.
He wasn’t sure whom to fear more: his own men or the red-haired woman. Because of this impostor and the lies of the American press, she would naturally think it was him on that video.
That video.
He had seen it himself. The room behind the impostor was dark, but there was no doubt that it had been his bedroom. Also, the man did bear a remarkable resemblance to him.
My bedroom. The woman.
Then he understood.
He had been played from the beginning.
Could the woman have orchestrated this? She had powers beyond his imagination. She was fast, strong, and could seemingly pop in and out of existence. She had been able to get into his bedroom before. Why couldn’t she also pose as him and mimic his voice?
Fakhr al Din clenched his raised fists as curses flew out of his mouth. Who were these people? From where did their powers come?
He felt weaker than he had ever felt in his life. He had no allies—only enemies. And the people who would ultimately kill him were his erstwhile friends.
No.
He would go to Hamim and explain his situation. He’d had no choice. It was a setup. He would humble himself and prove his loyalty by submitting to the authority of the Bushehr council. They would understand. His guards would attest to the woman’s demonic powers. But even if they didn’t accept his testimony, he was a walking dead man. If he had to die, he would choose to die honorably among his brothers even though he was innocent.
Fakhr al Din walked two blocks until he stood before a tall, thin green structure with two public pay phones, one on each side. He walked to one of the phones, lifted the handle, and paused before dialin
g Hamim—the man who had been in charge of his security.
His mind wavered. Couldn’t he just run? He had hidden accounts with enough money to live comfortably until old age. He had the knowledge and means to disappear completely.
No.
He had decided to die with honor and that was what he would do. But before his finger could press the first number, a pale hand from behind appeared and gripped his wrist.
In an instant, his arm went over his head and into an unnatural position behind his back. Before his nerves could inform his brain of the pain from a horribly dislocated shoulder, the other pale hand pressed its flat palm on his chest and pushed with more force than seemed possible from the meager distance it had to strike.
The terrorist lost consciousness as his body slammed into an uneven brick wall. While he would never again regain consciousness, his body would later be found with a gun inches from his lifeless hand. The gun would have his fingerprints on it, and a bullet discharged from its chamber would be found lodged in his brain.
Chapter 36
WASHINGTON DC
President Franklin took to the podium while most of the thousand dollar-a-plate supporters were still eating.
“I know emotionally charged, thrilling, and beautifully worded orations tend to encourage indigestion, so I’ll try to keep things brief and as boring as possible.”
While patches of polite laughter rippled through the audience, Carl, his speechwriter, cringed from the wings of the stage. The president had improvised his intro. The president often strayed from Carl’s scripts at these informal fund raising events. He was only slightly relieved to hear authentic laughter even if it wasn’t very enthusiastic. He risked a peek behind the curtain to observe the faces of the president’s most ardent and affluent supporters.
“I could stand here and recount the many accomplishments of the last three and a half years, but you already know all that and reiterating common knowledge will only bore you.”
The president wore a frozen smile that Carl first interpreted as masking a forgotten line. Then, he realized the president was simply timing his punch line—another improvisation.
“But as boredom is good for one’s digestion, I’ll just mention a few.”
Again, the polite laughter, but this time more enthusiastic.
“You know, for example, that we managed to cut taxes across the board without adding a single penny to our national debt. Our energy policies have resulted in lower gas prices while not forgetting our commitment to renewable energy. I bet you didn’t expect to pay two dollars and a quarter for a gallon of gas again in your lifetime, huh?” Over enthusiastic applause, he added, “Perhaps for a liter of gas, but not a gallon!”
The president was back on script. Carl had mouthed the last two sentences in sync with his boss. While the president had made major edits to Carl’s draft, he at least kept Carl’s favorite two lines. The huge applause made the speechwriter smile as he realized that half of his audience probably had never pumped a tank of gas in their lives.
“Excuse me.” The voice was soft and came from behind and in the dark.
Carl whipped around, startled that anyone was there. Backstage security was tighter than Uncle Scrooge’s fist hoarding a shiny new penny. He rushed over to the woman. She had long, curly red hair—extraordinarily bright, surely dyed. Her age was hard to guess, but Carl figured mid-twenties. Decent figure.
The speechwriter’s first overall impression was that she was pretty but not strikingly beautiful. And yet, as she smiled at him, it became increasingly hard to turn away or even to speak.
She wore a provocatively short dress matched with a tight and low cut blouse. Her eyes were hidden by large black sunglasses that somehow didn’t seem out of place even in this darkened hall. The glasses sat tight on her nose, a nose that wrinkled slightly as she smiled. Even without seeing her eyes, he had the sudden and odd realization that he was madly in love.
Being the president’s head speechwriter came with certain amenities; parties and social activities with many beautiful young women was one of them. Yet, somehow to this twenty-eight year old bachelor, this woman—who was now stirring all kinds of new and unexplored feelings within him—made all other women seem unattractive. For a moment, Carl forgot about his job—his career.
Shaking his head as if waking from a dream, he said, “I’m… very sorry, Ma’am, but this area is restricted. If you don’t mind, please…”
She took a step forward and removed her glasses. Those eyes. Those marvelously beautiful eyes. Once again, he succumbed and allowed love—or at least lust—to overpower him. At that moment, nothing else mattered. His job, the speech, the president… Nothing mattered but her eyes.
“You… are so beautiful,” he said, his voice cracking as if under stress.
The woman’s smile grew as she lifted her arms and hands to caress his now bright red cheeks. Her eyes and lips were mere inches away.
“So beautiful. Your eyes are like the darkest, richest wine.” Words that would have seemed corny and certainly absurd an hour ago, came flowing out. The poetic comparison seemed entirely appropriate for gazing into the eyes of his true love for the first time.
“Wine—yes. Drink deeply, my love.”
Carl was in another universe. He sensed there was darkness all around him, but a comforting light made him feel safe and warm. The woman was there in the light—or perhaps she was the light. His eyes were still adjusting and nothing seemed to make sense.
“Take this, Carl, my love,” she said, backing up a step.
He hadn’t realized it, but she had removed her hands from his cheeks. Her hands were now holding an oddly shaped box. It wasn’t square—as was his first impression—but two rectangular shapes molded together as one object. Carl couldn’t understand how the two rectangles were fastened together, but they were.
His eyes returned to hers while accepting the object and feeling it with his hands. It was startlingly cold compared to the warmth he felt emanating from her eyes. The warmness prevented him from looking down at the object even though his curiosity was burning.
“This way.”
He felt her hands on his hands, soft, but oddly cold—so unlike the incubating warmth of her eyes. Then she pushed, not roughly, but as if to give encouragement. She turned him until he was facing away from her. His first impulse was to resist and turn back to her eyes, to her warmth. The object was losing whatever warmth it had by the second. Soon, he felt it would be like trying to hold an ice cube to bare skin. But she shushed him as a mother would do to calm a crying baby.
“Shhh… Carl. It is all right. You can make it all right. You can make everything all right. I am here. Lift your hands.”
Carl tried to obey, but every inch it rose in height seemed to double the object’s weight.
“I… can’t. It’s… It is too heavy.”
Carl was crying, but he couldn’t understand why. The object began to burn his fingers from the cold. It really had become ice on his exposed skin.
“It’s so cold. I can’t...”
“Shhh… Yes, you can. It is all right. Now lift.”
He felt her arm begin to reach around him as in a one arm embrace, a finger ran down his arm slowly from the tip of his shoulder until it landed on his right index finger, his trigger finger.
“There. Just squeeze, my love.”
After the bullet left the barrel, the speechwriter continued standing still. He was alone backstage and holding a now warm gun, the only warmth that remained. Tears rolled down his cheeks from eyes that seemed to be glossed over and vacant. He smiled, feeling as though he was floating.
Then came the impact of someone flying in from the direction of the stage. The sound of the mysterious gunshot was still reverberating in his head as he was tackled to the ground. The gun flew from his hands and his head hit the carpet.
While on the ground, he blinked, clearing his eyes somewhat. He saw a dark ceiling. The only light came from the directio
n of the stage where the president was speaking—where the president had been speaking.
He could no longer hear the president.
Now he heard other voices. Several people were shouting something. After a few moments, his mind registered the meaning of one of the voices.
“The President is dead!”
Chapter 37
CALIFORNIA
Sam and Suteko hitchhiked to a small town on the edge of the desert and found a widow who had a room to let. They presented themselves as newly-weds—Sam, out of habit, still wore his wedding band and Suteko kept her naked ring finger out of the sight of Mrs. Phillips, the eighty-one year old proprietor.
Mrs. Phillips was greatly affected by the news of the president’s assassination. She had been in her early thirties when President Kennedy was assassinated, and during that first week of staying with her, she seemed to talk of nothing but the similarities between President Franklin and JFK.
The day after Vice-President Hollenbeck was sworn in, he was greeted by overwhelming support from both parties. It was as if September 12th, 2001 had happened all over again. Members of congress—regardless of party affiliation—marched out onto the steps holding hands. They sang the national anthem and prayed for President Franklin’s family and peace for the country. Washington was almost civil.
The president’s killer remained speechless. It was as if he was in shock and could not speak. People were clamoring for a death sentence; citizens were demanding answers and justice.
And then, much to the surprise of the nation and the FBI, Todd McGregor held a national press conference, eagerly covered by all major media outlets. There, he asked for calm and patience before making the startling statement that the assassin had not worked alone and that there was a connection with the president’s murder and the recent bomb threats. He once again begged for everyone’s patience as he worked with the authorities to bring those responsible to justice.