“Finally, this file looks like a word processing error, just a long string of numbers. These are cell phone numbers of all the key players, which I’m sure is out of date, but you may find it useful. The numbers are strung out in line after line, and each number is backwards.”
Frank and Buster just looked at each other.
Buster, the man of action, stood up suddenly and said, “Okay, that’s all I need for right now. I’m operating on two simple words. Prepare and Act, almost simultaneously. I’m going to take this data to my guys and have them start doing some fast police work. But before I go, I have a question. Do we have any bank account numbers in the book? They’re great for tracking people down.”
“That’s one thing I don’t have,” said Joe. “I did handle banking assignments, but they change account numbers weekly.”
“There’s a guy I need to call,” said Buster. “I don’t know when he can get here, but I want another meeting as soon as he does.”
“Oh, one last thing. Joe, do you consider The New York Times authoritative?”
“Well, sure.”
“Good, then I regret to inform you that you’re dead, killed at Leavenworth by an unknown assailant. The New York Times says so.
Frank and I couldn’t help laughing. Buster moves at the speed of light.
Our meeting for the day was over, but my surprises weren’t.
As we left the room, Frank touched my elbow and said, “Janice, can I have a word with you?”
“I’d ask you out for a drink if we weren’t on lockdown, but could we just have a private chat in my office?”
My wise-cracking, smart-ass self almost said, “But I planned to watch Dancing with the Stars tonight.”
What I said was, “Of course.”
Chapter 34
I loved Frank’s office the moment I walked in. It exuded masculinity and power, but it also had a certain warmth to it. The emphasis was on leather, rich and sumptuous burgundy leather, which apparently was new because it let off a friendly, comforting smell. Frank, the country’s most clandestine spy, did not advertise his recent exploits with photographs, just a few from his youth. He played football at Annapolis, and a few pictures of him in uniform adorned the walls.
“From this action shot, I’m guessing you were a running back,” I said. “I can never understand how football players manage to pose for action shots. It looks like you’re about to collapse in a heap after the photographer clicked the button.”
“That’s exactly what I did,” Frank said. We both laughed.
“How about a drink, Janice?”
“That would be great. Just give me that bottle of vodka with straw and a slice of lemon.”
“You’ve had a stressful few days, I take it.”
“Try a few weeks, Frank. It seems like just yesterday that I went wormhole tripping with a known terrorist who turned out to be my road trip buddy.”
Frank looked at me and smiled, a smile that said, “Yeah, I know what you mean.” I hoped he was having a memory as pleasant as the one I had.
He poured vodka into a glass and some scotch for himself. He held my glass up and said, “Rocks?”
“That would be great, Honey.”
Shit! “Honey?” What the hell was I saying. There’s something about being subtle that I never seem to grasp. So I followed up my blatant flirtation by blubbering like a fool.
“Oh, gee, damn, I had no right to say that, I mean, I guess I’m tired from all of this stuff. I’m really sorry, Frank.”
Frank brought our drinks over. He sat down next to me on the soft leather couch. He reached over and stroked my hand.
“That’s okay, Janice. Actually I kind of liked the sound of it. ‘Honey.’ I can live with that.”
“It’s hard to believe that just a few days ago we were total strangers,” I said. “I have a confession to make. I’ve checked you out. Once I found out that you were an admiral I realized that I knew even less about you than I thought.”
“So how did you check me out?” Frank asked with a smile, still stroking my hand.
“I Googled your name, both your names, and read the entries into the early morning hours. I also asked people about you, especially Buster. In the last couple of days I’ve become an expert on Rear Admiral Frank Thompson. I feel like I’ve known you for a long time. So after our epic road trip and my hours of investigation, I’ve come to a conclusion.”
“What’s your conclusion?”
“You’re a good man, a guy I’d like to be around more. A lot more. Did you do any research on me?” I asked.
“With the entire intelligence apparatus of the government at my disposal, what do you think?”
“I think I like you. A lot.”
It was time for a kiss, but I’d been thinking that for quite a while. Frank seemed to think the same. He leaned over, looked at me with his gorgeous brown eyes, held my face in his left hand, and kissed me on the lips.
There are certain incidents in one’s life that bring the world into focus. Stepping on a wormhole is like that. One minute you’re here, the next you’re in a different time. But a wormhole can’t hold diddly-squat against a kiss from Frank Thompson.
“Honey, I’ve been meaning to have a chat with you for a long time,” Frank said.
Honey, what a wonderful word. I hoped he wouldn’t apologize to me for saying it. Honey? Cool. I’m his honey, and he’s my honey. I’m feeling relaxed. I feel like I haven’t felt this way in what seems an eternity. I feel calm, warm, happy, and I haven’t even sipped my vodka yet.
“Yeah, me too,” I said. I aspire to be articulate, but most of the time it’s just an aspiration.
“I don’t want to beat the obvious over the head with a baseball bat,” said Frank, “but I think you’ll agree that we, not to mention the whole country, are going through a strange and dangerous time. I just felt that I had to take a breather, sit down with you and let you know that I’m attracted to you. I really like you.”
“Is that why you called me Honey?”
“Yes, Honey, it is.”
Another kiss. A really long, make your eyes cloudy, tickle your nose, get the heart pumping kind of kiss.
Then I laughed. Actually, I cracked up.
“What’s so funny, Honey?”
“I can’t friggin believe that less than a week ago I sat in a car with a gun trained on you.”
Frank laughed. “Can you guess when I really became attracted you, Janice?”
“I’m listening.”
“I really started to like you when you pointed the gun away from me, put on the safety, and slipped it into your purse on the Jersey Turnpike.”
“Men tell me that all the time,” I said.
Frank looked adorable with Scotch squirting out of his nostrils. I jumped up and grabbed some tissues from his desk. Frank stood as we patted the Scotch dry on his suit. He continued to laugh and blow his nose.
He put both arms around my waist and pulled me close to him.
“I especially like a woman with a sense of humor.”
We sat back down on the couch.
“Janice, since you’re now a fellow spook, I have to bring you up to speed on some things, especially concerning me. I’m in lockdown. I live here at the CIA, and I’m not allowed to travel. There’s a guy here who works in IT. He’s a dead ringer for me, almost looks like he could be my twin. The Director has warned the guy to be careful. My lockdown is on direct orders from the White House. We know al Qaeda has a target on Joe Monahan’s back, which is why he’s here.
We also believe they’re after me. I’ve been out of circulation for a while, my mole identity that is. As John le Carré would put it, I’m the spy who came in from the cold.”
“I’ll keep you warm,” I said, as I wrapped my arms around his neck. What the hell. The two of us crossed a line and I wasn’t about to go back.
Another kiss. I won’t even describe this one. I want to keep it to myself. Deep breath.
“S
o I can’t even leave the CIA compound until the mission is over.”
“So you have, uh, like a room right here at the Agency?”
“Yes, it’s really a well-furnished apartment, right here on campus.”
“And you’re actually able to, like, uh, entertain guests?” I figured I’d go where we both wanted to go.
“Well, the Agency has all kinds of rules, but when you hit a certain level of seniority, the rules bend a bit.”
“So why don’t we bend the rules a bit?”
As I’ve said, subtlety is not my strong suit.
Frank leaned over and kissed me, again.
“I hope I’m not being too forward,” said Frank.
“Forward?” I said. “What makes you think you’re being forward?”
“Well,” said Frank, “This is, after all, our first date.”
“What do you mean our first date?” I asked. “This is our fifth date.”
“What?” said Frank. “How is this our fifth date?”
“Let’s count them,” I said. “Our first date was when we came through the wormhole. Our second was when I bought you a hot dog at the food stand in Manhattan after you threw up. Our third date was at the car rental office. Then came our fourth date at the Vince Lombardi Service area on the New Jersey Turnpike. That’s when I put the gun in my purse. And finally, we’re on our fifth date, right here.”
“Well then,” said Frank, “allow me to invite you on our sixth date, at my apartment. I think it’s fair to say that I like you – a lot.”
“Does that explain why your hand is under my skirt?”
Chapter 35
The private residences at the CIA are impressive, although not to be confused with the Waldorf. The hallways and common areas have an almost pleasant atmosphere, a place where temporarily assigned spies can feel at home, if only for a little while. I felt intimidated about walking past Frank’s bodyguards on our way to his apartment, but Frank assured me that these were two trusted guys, with a strong sense of discretion. Hell, he’s not married so why should they care? Because I wasn’t sure where Mother Agency would be sending me that night, I carried a bag packed with a change of clothes.
Frank’s apartment impressed me almost as much as his office. Not as much leather, but it was, as he said, well-furnished. My engineer’s eye sized it up to be about 1,250 square feet. It boasted an eat-in kitchen, two full bathrooms and two bedrooms, one of which was totally unnecessary, I thought. (Chill, stop, move slow, be cool).
We never did get to our drinks at Frank’s office, so he poured us two more, making sure to serve my drink with his right hand, and giving me a cocktail napkin without me having to ask. How can this guy be so urbane and charming when he’s spent part of his life spooking around the world’s hell holes?
Frank gave me a quick tour of the apartment, which, at 1,250 square feet went quickly. All the while we held hands, which was fine with me.
“So how do you keep such a beautiful figure?” asked Frank, being totally flirtatious, which was also fine with me.
“I’m a fitness nut. How about you, Handsome?”
“I burn a lot of calories chasing things and running away from things.”
We both agreed that we felt kind of grungy after yet another day of meetings. I was a little nervous that Frank would crack one of those lame “why don’t we conserve water” jokes. Things are moving fast, but just fast enough. I felt relieved when he said that I’d find a fresh robe hanging on the guest bath door.
The shower, as showers always do, felt great. He even supplied my favorite bar soap. Maybe he found this out when he ran his intelligence report on me. The white terry robe hanging on the door was emblazoned with “United States Naval Academy,” and a “Beat Army” patch on the sleeve. I guess Admiral Frank, CIA spook on loan, likes to remind himself that he’s still employed by the United States Navy. I briefly wondered why the guest bathrobe. Has he had guests there before? None of my business, I concluded, as long as she stays the hell away from now on. Stop being childish. It’s time to come out and play.
I put on the robe. The bottom of it cascaded to a puddle of fabric four inches deep. The shoulders began at my elbows. At 5’10,” I’m not short, but this robe fit me like a blanket. I fantasized about my Snow White moment, but I looked like Dopey the Dwarf.
I walked into the living room, hiking up my regal bathrobe so as not to trip and fall on my face. Frank was pouring us drinks. He looked at me and laughed.
“What’s so amusing?” I asked, looking like a poorly wrapped sandwich.
“That robe was given to me as a joke gift at an Army-Navy Game. A guy on stilts wore it in the half-time parade. But you look beautiful anyway.”
He sat on the couch and I sat next to him, with my face nestled on his shoulder.
It may sound crazy, but he seemed a little nervous. Maybe it’s been a long time. It sure as hell had been for me. This is going to be clumsy, I thought, and fun.
Frank couldn’t seem to find words beyond small talk, and I found this cute as hell. I held his handsome face in my hands and said, “Hey sailor, I thought you were going to show me your art work.”
We walked into the master bedroom and faced each other at the foot of the bed. I dropped my gigantic United States Naval Academy robe to the floor. Frank did the same with his.
Frank then showed me his art work, and what wonderful, breathtaking art it was. What a talented artist. “That one’s great. Wait, wait, show me that again. Oh my God, what an artist, just keep on, on, on, uh, showing me.”
In the woozy, cozy afterglow of our lovemaking we lay still. Some feelings you don’t want go away. You just try to recreate them and keep them part of you. That’s how I felt. I love this man. Okay, I only met him a few days ago, but I’ve learned all about him, and he’s learned everything about me. I’m not just attracted to him, I love him. In all of the crazy shit I’ve gone through in the past three weeks I’ve learned what I want and what I don’t want. Him, I want.
I rolled on top of him, and immediately felt that he was ready for more. I held his face in my hands and said the simple words, “I love you.”
“Say that again, Janice.”
“I love you.”
“My turn. I love you.”
We embraced for so long I thought we went through another wormhole.
“What’s next for us, Frank?” I said as I stared into his eyes.
“Honey, after this thing is over, and it will be over because we’re gonna win it, you and I have a lifetime to figure out what’s next.”
“A lifetime?”
“You heard me.”
Fate can be strange. Sometimes you think it’s on your side, other times not. A short while ago I was on a road trip with a man who frightened and confused me. Now, I am drop dead, head over heels in love with him, and I think my feelings are reciprocated.
I’ve noticed something about time travelers, including Frank and me.
We don’t like to waste time.
Chapter 36
This morning’s headline in The New York Times reads, “Thanksgiving Bomber Joseph Monahan Killed in Prison.”
“Sheik Haddad, have you seen the newspaper, sir?” said Hussein Basara, aide to Sheik Abbas Haddad.
“Yes, and I think it’s an infidel lie. The report does not say who the killer was but leaves the impression that it may have been a targeted assassination. As we know, that’s impossible because I am the only one who could have ordered such an action. No, I believe the infidels have planted this story to convince us that Monahan is dead, to stop our plans to kill him.”
“But Sheik Haddad, if I may sir, these American newspapers, especially important ones like The New York Times, only go to print when the information has been checked with other sources, usually at least two.”
“Hussein, my brother, are you so naive as to think that someone could not have simply planted the ‘sources’? I think that the Americans are trying to fool us into believing that M
onahan is dead. Put out the word to all of our contacts to look and listen for any information about Monahan. I believe he lives. He must be killed.”
“And what about Ayham Abboud, sir? Has there still been no contact with him?”
“No, there has not. This is a mystery to me. If the Americans have captured him they know how valuable he is, and what’s more important, they know that we know his value. But there have been no newspaper reports about Sheik Abboud at all. And naturally, without any evidence people begin to speculate, including our own brothers. I even heard a ridiculous rumor yesterday that Ayham Abboud is really an American Navy admiral.”
Basara laughed so hard he spilled his tea.
“It’s good to see you laugh, my brother. We must laugh when we hear nonsense. Can you imagine, Sheik Abboud an admiral?”
They both laughed.
“But laughter cannot replace vigilance,” said Haddad. “Until we know the fate of Sheik Abboud, we must assume the worst, that he is in American custody.”
Chapter 37
The good old Thanksgiving Gang has been called to Director Bill Carlini’s office at the CIA. Old Thanksgiving Gang? I can’t believe I thought that. Old? About three weeks ago I was a quiet HVAC engineer designing an air conditioning system for a bank in New Jersey. I had never heard of The Thanksgiving Gang, because it didn’t exist. Three weeks ago.
***
Director Bill Carlini called the meeting to order. Carlini’s a good man. In the midst of all this madness, it’s comforting having a smart, level-headed guy in charge. The Thanksgiving Gang was there: Jack Thurber, Bennie Weinberg, Wally Burton, myself, and of course, our gang leader, CIA Agent Buster. I had hoped that Jack’s wife Ashley, my new friend, would be there, but she has this little detail in her life called running a nuclear aircraft carrier. Non-gang members included my soon-to-be ex-husband Joe Monahan, to whom I no longer refer to as scumbag, and Admiral Frank Thompson, aka Ayham Abboud, aka Frankie of Arabia, aka the-man-I-love. Those last two “aka’s” were left out of Carlini’s introductions.
A Time of Fear: Book Three of The Time Magnet Series Page 9