A Time of Fear: Book Three of The Time Magnet Series
Page 2
“We gotta go,” I said to Ben and Wally. “Today’s October 18, only six weeks to Thanksgiving Day.”
“Go where?” they both asked.
“We’ve got to go back to the wormhole,” I said. “We know that today is October 18. We know that time goes faster in the past than in the present, and from that movie we just saw as well as our own eyes, we know what will happen in less than two months. And most important, we know where the wormhole is. We’ve got to go back to stop these attacks just like we went back to stop the attacks on the ships. I don’t think there’s anything to talk about. We gotta do it.”
We talked about the timing of our return to 2015. I wanted to go back immediately, but Ben and Wally had concerns.
“I’m staying here for a bit longer,” said Wally. “I want to bring as much information back with me as possible.”
“Me too,” said Ben. “I want to talk to my people at the NYPD and find out more. We want as much information as we can get our hands on before we go time-tripping back.”
“Well, I’m going back NOW,” I said. “Somebody’s got to blow the whistle and put things in motion.”
Both Ben and Wally agreed that I should go back as soon as possible. They said they’d follow me the next day.
As I walked to the wormhole site I wondered how the hell we could do anything in six weeks. We had a lot of time before the ship attacks were supposed to happen, and we had a lot of research to start with, not to mention Wally Burton’s brilliant investigative reporting. Now we’ve got squat, other than the CD video “evidence” in my shoulder bag. I won’t have a hard time convincing my time travel friends on the other side of the wormhole, but what do we do then? I’ve just got to get back and sweat the details later.
***
I approached the lot where the wormhole was located, getting ready for my third time trip in a matter of weeks. This is nuts. I’m hoping to wake up and find that this has been a strange dream.
As I walked up to the grate a man called my name.
Chapter 3
“Mrs. Monahan, shouted the man as he approached me. “May I have a word with you?”
Shit, what a time to be without my Glock. I’m a deadly accurate shot, but that talent doesn’t work without a gun. The guy didn’t seem menacing, but with all the crazy crap I’ve been through recently I wasn’t about to let my guard down. Beside my skill with a pistol, one of my favorite workout routines is kick boxing. As the man got near me I visualized my right foot crushing his nuts.
“Please, Madam, I just need to speak with you. Where are your friends?”
“To what friends are you referring,” I asked, “and who the hell are you?”
The guy was quite tall and handsome. He looked Middle Eastern, but wore no beard, sported khaki pants and a navy blue blazer. A preppy wouldn’t be a mugger now would he?
“My name is Ayham Abboud.”
“Ayham Abboud,” I shouted, as I readied my right leg and foot. “Any relation to an al Qaeda big shot with the same name?”
“I am not the Ayham Abboud who you think I am.”
“Well how about a straight answer to a simple fucking question?” I inquired pleasantly. “Are you him or not?”
“Appearances are not what they appear to be, Madam.”
The guy didn’t look or sound at all threatening. But what the hell do I know. I’m the woman who married a man committed to mass murder. I wish Bennie Weinberg was here. Bennie’s a shrink with the NYPD and can smell bullshit a mile away.
“Are you armed?” I said, trying not to show my fear.
“Yes, Madam,” he said as he casually reached into his pocket, took out a nine-millimeter pistol, and gave it to me, handle forward. He did this before my talented right foot was about to connect with his crotch.
“Now you are in charge of this conversation,” he said. “I am well aware of your talents with a pistol.”
Chapter 4
“Okay, so let me get this straight,” I said, “you’re a terrorist who hands me a gun, knowing that I can blow your head off.”
“Yes, Madam, and I also know of your bravery and that you wouldn’t hesitate to shoot me.”
This conversation was starting to suffer from a lack of direction. A killer gives me his gun and chats like we’re feeding pigeons in the park.
“What do you want?” I said. If he gives me some more poetic crap like when I asked his identity, maybe I will shoot him.
“I know that you’re about to go through the wormhole, it’s right there,” he said pointing to the portal. “I knew you would be here eventually. I’ve been waiting for you for quite some time.”
“Okay, pal, as I expected you didn’t answer my fucking question, so I’ll repeat it. What do you want?”
I’ve noticed that when I’m frightened my language gets vulgar. Maybe I should kick this guy in the nuts. I’ll feel better, and I’ll speak more ladylike.
“I wish to accompany you back to the year 2015, through the portal,” he said, nodding to the wormhole. “I can go alone or accompany you. Believe me, Madam, it is best that we went together.”
“Alright,” I said, “here’s another simple question – why?”
“I want to help you stop the Thanksgiving Attacks. I’m the only one who can.”
Chapter 5
My elusive Arab conversationalist finally made a point, a good point, actually a winning point. I’ve got a gun and a quick right foot. How risky can this be? I’m dying to continue this conversation – on the other side of the wormhole.
We walked up to the metal grate. My stomach was in a knot, as I expected.
“Have you ever done this before?” I asked.
“In my life I have done many things, Madam.”
Here he goes again. Whatever else he’s done in his life, answering questions doesn’t appear to be one of them.
“Okay, here’s the drill. I’ll go first and you follow behind me.”
No way would I step through the portal with Omar here waiting for me on the other side.
I stepped through the wormhole, felt the normal dizziness and slight nausea, immediately took the safety off my new-found pistol, and turned to meet him. He appeared, took one step, and fell onto his side shaking his head. He tried to stand up and barfed. If this man’s a time traveler he’s out of practice. I held his arm as we walked over to a nearby vendor. My girl scout days came back to me, and I felt kind of bad for the guy. I wanted to get him some water so he could rinse his mouth out. I also reached into my purse and handed him a small bottle of mouthwash.
“Are you okay?” I asked him, suddenly concerned for his safety. He nodded and smiled sheepishly as I handed him a wad of cleansing towlettes. Even though I just saw my Arab friend throw up, I was starving, so I figured we’d have a quick meal at a nearby food cart. I asked him if he could use something to eat since he just lost his breakfast. He nodded. I expected him to order falafel or some shit, but instead he asked for a hot dog with extra sauerkraut. Getting to know this guy will be a work in progress.
Norfolk, Virginia, our destination, is about 350 miles from here, or six hours driving time, which should get us there around 5 PM. I didn’t want to fly because it would be impossible to get the gun through security, and the gun was my security. I also figured he could tell me his story on the way, and probably evade every goddam question I ask him.
“Do you know how to drive a car, Mr. Abboud?”
“Life has many pleasures, Madam, and driving a motor vehicle is one of them.”
“That’s a lovely observation,” I said, “but at the risk of repeating myself, can you drive a fucking car?”
“Yes, Madam.”
It’s going to be a long six hours, I thought. We got to the car rental place and I picked out a Ford Explorer. I didn’t ask him what he wanted, because I didn’t care. He was the hitchhiker after all.
I made sure we got a car with a GPS because holding a gun and fumbling with maps don’t go together.
I wish I could say that I’m getting used to this insanity, but I’m not.
Chapter 6
After I got off the phone with Jack I leaned against the car and pretended to make another call. I was buying time to get my thoughts together. It occurred that I was about to take a 350-mile trip with a guy who’s a known terrorist, probably a mass murderer. But he seemed, and this may sound stupid, like a nice guy, almost pleasant. He was polite, even courtly, the way he called me “madam.” What I knew about him, or what I thought I knew about him, wasn’t lining up with my actual experience of him. I needed to know some more about this man before our road trip. I got into the passenger seat of the car, with the pistol in my lap. As he was about to turn on the ignition, I told him to wait.
“I can’t go any further until I know some more about you,” I said. “Are you the man who engineered the nuclear attacks on the five American aircraft carriers? We know the attacks didn’t happen, but are you the mastermind or not?”
“I realize that you’re impatient with me when I don’t answer your questions directly, Madam, but I believe it would be best for me to disclose everything in the company of your friends, the ones you call The Thanksgiving Gang, as well as the proper authorities.”
“Just a damn minute,” I said. “We know what happened on Thanksgiving Day, 2015. We just came from the year 2017 and saw the devastation. Instead of the ships, five American cities were nuked. Now here we are, back in 2015, just weeks before the attacks. You have to answer this question – Were you in charge of that operation as well?”
“The simple answer, Madam, and it will be a simple answer, is NO. Absolutely not. But we both know that these attacks will happen, and that’s what I want to prevent. If I have to sacrifice my own life to stop the bombs, I shall happily do so.”
“Thanks for answering a question for a change,” I said, “but I have a follow-up. Did you or did you not act as mentor and spiritual advisor to the bomb planting naval officers when they were only teenagers on a trip to Saudi Arabia? Did you not convert them to Islam and engage them in the conspiracy to nuke the American ships?”
“I will also answer that question, Madam. Yes, in 1994 I took these kids, who were on a school trip, and converted them to Islam. I can be persuasive, especially with young people. I not only converted them to Islam but to radical Islam, to a life of hatred of all things Western, a double life of jihadists and American naval officers.”
“Then exactly why should I trust you?”
“Because, Madam, I am not that man. Yes, I am Ayham Abboud, but not the Abboud who you feared and hated. I shall disclose my life to you and your friends and to anyone who asks. I just request that we wait until we get to Norfolk.”
I felt like a thirsty cat that was just given a spoon full of milk. I wanted more, but he wanted to hold his fire until we all get together. I’m sitting next to a man who is a known terrorist, but he says he’s not, even though he bears the name Ayham Abboud. But he wants to wait till we get to Norfolk to talk. What choice do I have? I’m not going to shoot the guy. At least I don’t think so.
We were approaching the Vince Lombardi Service area on the New Jersey Turnpike when Abboud said, “Madam, I’m going to pull off at the next rest stop to attend to matters.”
“You can attend to matters,” I said. “I’ll pee.”
When Abboud pulled into a parking spot and turned off the car, I was reaching down to pick up my bag. In an instant he walked around the car and opened the door for me. After he opened the door he gestured with his hand for me to step out. This is not going easy on my head. He’s not only pleasant to be with, he’s an old fashioned gentleman. He’s also quite good looking. Stop right there girl! I reminded myself that my husband Joe Monahan was a handsome and charming guy who was prepared to murder thousands of people. Didn’t I read somewhere that Osama bin Laden was a gentlemanly sort?
I turned my back to a group of people to conceal what I was about to do. “Look at this,” I said, as I put the safety switch on the pistol and placed the gun in my bag. He showed good faith by giving me his gun, so I figured I would show him some return good faith. It’s always a more pleasant experience to travel with someone who isn’t able to kill you in an instant.
We “attended to matters” and met near the rest stop exit. Abboud offered to stand in line to get us a couple of sodas. I noticed that he was wearing dark sunglasses and had a Yankees cap pulled down over his forehead. I stood there observing the travelers coming and going. These people don’t know who this guy is. They have no idea that he planned the deaths of a few thousand people and trained five young boys for a life of murder. They don’t know this man.
Do I?
We got back into the car and started to leave the parking lot. As we came to a traffic aisle, a car driven by a teenager suddenly shot right in front of us, forcing Abboud to hit the brakes and me to spit my Diet Coke all over the dashboard. The kid turned and flipped us the universal sign of disapproval. I expected Abboud to curse and pound the steering wheel. Instead, he bowed his head slightly and put his hands together in a prayerful gesture, as if to telegraph to the brat “I’m sorry.” This guy has a control over his emotions that you don’t often see. I could use some of that myself.
I wiped the soda from the dashboard and myself and glanced at my car buddy. I’m sitting next to a man who is a complete mystery. He’s definitely an easy travelling companion, and our pleasant chatting has calmed the knot in my stomach. I decided that it was about time to talk like a couple of friendly acquaintances, and maybe lift the mood a bit.
“We have about 125 miles to go,” I said. “What should I call you? I’ve been calling you Mr. Abboud – I refuse to call you Sheik. You can call me Janice. I hate the name Mrs. Monahan.”
“Please call me Frank, Janice.”
“Frank? Fucking Frank?” I inquired in my ladylike way.
“No, Janice, just Frank.”
Chapter 7
Even though we were now on a first name basis, (I still can’t get that the guy’s name is so simple and American) the conversation continued to be stilted because Frankie of Arabia wanted to hold up on his story till we got to Norfolk. So I clicked onto an audio book site on my iPhone. I read through a few titles when Frank requested that we listen to Things that Matter by Charles Krauthammer, a book consisting of the author’s writings over the past couple of decades. It’s a book I’ve been meaning to read or listen to so I agreed with his selection.
“But Krauthammer’s a conservative writer and pundit, and an American patriot,” I said. “I don’t know why but I’m surprised you’d want to listen to him.”
“He’s a brilliant intellectual and historian, Janice. He’s also an admirable man who’s a quadriplegic as a result of a youthful swimming accident. He knows how to overcome adversity. Krauthammer’s one of my favorite people.”
I didn’t think Sheik Frankie was what the Republican establishment thinks of as part of “the base.” But then as the time and miles go by, I’m not sure what anybody can think of my road trip buddy. I sure as hell don’t know what to think of him. But I can’t believe I’m actually starting to like him.
I have to admit that my mind kept wandering from the words of Dr. Krauthammer, much as I enjoy him. I kept taking glances at my road companion, Frank. He really is handsome and has a slender athletic build. Okay, stop right there girl. I rem
inded myself that less than a month ago I was a quiet engineer working on a heating and air conditioning plant for a bank in New Jersey. In the last few weeks I discovered that my husband was a terrorist and potential mass murderer. Now I’m sitting here next to a man named Ayham Abboud who calls himself Frank. I know that he is (was?) a serious terrorist who held a key to the executive men’s room at al Qaeda, Inc. I know (I think I know) that he was the prime mover in the attempted destruction of five American warships. And I’m getting to like him. Maybe I should apply for a spot on a reality TV show.
I ponder this fact. Captain Patterson calls her husband Jack a “Time Magnet” because he has a habit of stepping on wormholes. Maybe I’m a “Jihadi Magnet.” I seem to attract them, no? First Joe, now Frank. No matter how good looking this guy is, I’m cooling it until further notice. Also in the last few weeks I thought I was falling in love with Jack Thurber until I found out that his wife Ashley was still alive. I realized that it would never happen between me and Jack. So now Frankie of Arabia is looking good to me. Is he just a rebound from Jack, and was Jack just a rebound from my treasonous husband? I think I mentioned before that I’m confused.
It hasn’t gotten any better.
Chapter 8
The strangest road trip in my life was coming to an end. I had just gotten a call from Jack telling me that our meeting location had been changed to CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia. It’s about 25 miles north of Norfolk so it shaved some time off our trip. Jack wouldn’t say why we were meeting at the CIA.
We drove up to the gate and gave our names to the guard. I told the guard that I was armed and, as I expected, he asked for my (Frank’s) gun and temporarily confiscated it.