“No, Buster, I don’t, but that should be an easy job for you guys. Hell, this isn’t Switzerland.”
Buster excused himself and left the room. He returned 10 minutes later.
“The account is with Bank of America and is in the name of a Gordon Jones. I’ve identified the yacht he bought. In a few minutes I’ll have the name of the boat, assuming he renamed it. We’re running a name check on Gordon Jones, but I doubt we’ll find anything.”
“Pardon me, gentlemen,” said Carlini, “but I’m not sure I see a connection to what we’re looking for.”
“Mr. Director,” said Buster, “Trevor’s exactly right when he and his algorithm look for anomalies. And how’s this for an anomaly? This Jones guy bought the yacht just last week, a 20 Million-dollar-yacht, and it’s already left port. If you spent that kind of money on an expensive toy, wouldn’t you leave it in dock for at least a few days or weeks to make sure everything is working?”
“But if it left port, how the hell do we know where it is?” asked Carlini.
“My satellite people are already on it,” said Buster. “With the size, 85 feet, an estimated time of departure, and an estimated cruising speed, we should be able to ID the boat within an hour.”
“Folks,” said Carlini, “sitting around this conference table are some of the smartest people I’ve ever met in my life, and I’m not just blowing smoke. I think it’s time to put our collective brain power to work. Let’s start looking for some dots to connect.”
“Mr. Director,” said Bennie, “I’d like a recording of what you just said about smart people so I can email it to my mother.”
We all laughed. Bennie, the friendly shrink, had eyeballed the need for some levity in the room.
“If I may,” continued Ben, “I’ll admit to being a bit stumped. We went from an old Chrysler plant in Detroit where the bombs were kept that were targeted for the ships. Then we found the Denver plant, thanks to Trevor. It’s pretty safe to assume, given Joe Monahan’s description and Janice’s drawing, that Denver was definitely a bomb plant. But then, to overstate the obvious, we came up empty. With the clock ticking, do we dare put all of our eggs in a basket that looks like a yacht? I’d like to hear Trevor’s thoughts on this.”
“You’re right on target, Ben,” said Trevor. “Never (nevah) put all your eggs in the same basket. Whoever came up with that quote should have a statue erected to him at Harvard Business School. So here’s the other basket, or baskets, that we should look at. You folks have told me about the list of al Qaeda safe houses you got from that fella Joe Monahan. These haven’t been plugged into my algorithm yet, but it seems logical that we should put surveillance on them as well.”
“Already done,” said Buster. “They’re under 24/7 satellite surveillance.”
Carlini laughed. “Buster,” he said, “when this is all over I’d like to cut a business deal with you. I’m thinking of setting up a company that sells action figures named ‘Buster.’ You squeeze it and an electronic voice says, ‘Done it already.’”
“Thanks for the compliment, sir,” said Buster. “If it weren’t for this job I think I’d just be an average obsessive compulsive lying on a couch and talking to somebody like Bennie. But getting back to Ben’s question, I think we’d all like Trevor to give us his thoughts about the yacht.”
With that, Buster’s pager went off. He only accepts calls from Phil Lopez, his aide, and Phil knows to call only when it’s an absolute necessity.
“Before Trevor gives us his yacht ideas I want to give you all an update. That was Phil Lopez. It seems the yacht is named Andiamo, but most importantly, it has just been tracked going up the Hudson River, near the George Washington Bridge. What we don’t know is if the boat made any stops between Fort Lauderdale and its present location. But what we do know is that we’ve got it in our sights.”
“Denver was a shock, to say the least,” said Carlini. “But we’re no longer back to square one.”
Chapter 50
It’s 6:45 AM on October 29th. I’m in Frank’s apartment again, having slept over after last night’s seemingly endless meeting. I like it here. Frank likes having me here. And that’s all I have to say about that.
I always wake up automatically at 6:00, so I was in the kitchen making coffee. At 8 AM we are due in the Director’s office for, you guessed it, another meeting.
The phone rang. I assumed it was Buster. Who else would call at 6:45 AM?
Frank picked up the phone and walked into the kitchen yawning. We kissed and suddenly Frank appeared to snap to attention.
“Yes, sir,” Frank said. Then he said it again. And again.
I’m dying to know who “sir” is. Admiral Frank is usually on the receiving end of “sir.”
I stood with my face 4 inches from his, just to make sure he had privacy.
“It’s the White House.” Frank scribbled on a piece of paper.
I stared with a look that, I don’t know, must have seemed dumbfounded, because I was dumfounded.
As I stared intently at Frank I poured him a cup of hot coffee.
Shit, I forgot the cup! I poured the hot coffee on his left hand, which was resting on the counter.
Frank danced around in obvious pain, trying to keep his voice calm on the phone. I grabbed him by the arm and led him to the sink where I ran his hand under cold water. I walked to the other side of the kitchen and poured Frank another coffee, this time remembering the cup.
After Frank said “yes, sir,” for the zillionth time, give or take, he finally hung up the phone, but not without a final “yes, sir.”
“So who were you talking to?” I said, as I rubbed burn cream over the back of Frank’s hand.
“The President himself.”
“Holy shit!” I said, somehow thinking that was an appropriate thing to say.
“He wants me to take command of a Carrier Strike Group. It seems that the White House is worried that if we don’t stop the Thanksgiving bombs, some hostile nations will want to take advantage of the situation.”
“What exactly is a Carrier Strike Group?” I asked.
“It’s a group of ships consisting of an aircraft carrier, a guided missile cruiser, and at least two frigates or large destroyers. It used to be called a Carrier Battle Group. My flagship, which is the carrier I’ll be aboard, is none other than the USS Abraham Lincoln, my old friend Ashley Patterson’s ship. The force will be known as Carrier Strike Group 1115, named after Thanksgiving of this year.”
I almost reacted like a jerk, but I’m pleased that I got it together in time. My first thoughts were how dangerous will it be and when will I see Frank again. But then I quickly realized that Frank is an important man, important enough to get a call from the President of the United States himself. Frank’s job is to defend our country. My job is to help him do just that.
I can start by not pouring coffee on his hand.
Chapter 51
Bennie Weinberg here.
I walked down the long corridor leading to Buster’s office. I think Buster planned his office to be located at the end of a long hallway to give visitors time to assemble their thoughts before meeting with him.
A short, attractive redhead walked toward me, coming from Buster’s office. She was quite shapely and wore an expensive, tasteful dark gray business suit, which complimented her mane of red hair. The closer we got the more familiar she looked.
“Bennie,” she yelled. Obviously I must know her. Time to think fast and remember faster.
“Maggie, Maggie Cohen!” I yelled back.
We hugged as only old friends do. She wore perfume that I remember well. My studies tell me that the olfactory sense is a key repository of recollection, and the scent of her brought back some wonderful memories of times past. Maggie and I met at Harvard when I was in the medical school and she was studying for a PhD in political science.
After we hugged we continued to hold each other. My shy introverted personality was starting to reassert itself. Yes
, loudmouth, trash-talking Bennie Weinberg is a closet introvert, something that people find surprising. I know, as a psychiatrist, that resisting an emotion will not make it go away, so I just allowed myself to feel shy. Shy but excited at the same time.
Maggie was a dead ringer for Bette Midler, only a bit more shapely if you can believe it.
My phone buzzed. It was Buster.
“Bennie,” said Buster, “I’m sorry but we have to delay our meeting for an hour. I’ll see you later.”
It was the best message I ever got from Buster. I had an hour to spare, and somebody to share it with.
“You look like you could use a cup of coffee,” I said, trying to sound charming but somehow feeling that I didn’t achieve the result. “We can catch up on old times.”
“You’re on, Handsome,” Maggie said. “How about my favorite cafeteria?”
Handsome? Not to brag, but I’m the nation’s top expert in judging a person’s veracity. Nobody bullshits Bennie Weinberg. Maggie was telling the truth, not that I’m objectively handsome, but she believed what she said. I hoped it wasn’t obvious but I felt myself blushing.
We found a quiet corner of the CIA cafeteria and sipped our coffee, our hands touching all the while. I figured it was time to get the normal “long time no see” pleasantries out of the way, so I gave Maggie a brief recent history of Bennie Weinberg for the past 20 years.
I reviewed my life since Harvard, including my divorce, a part of my background that still bothers me. To dispel any confusion, I also discussed my friendship with Jack Thurber and my time travelling experiences, which brought me to the CIA. I then talked about how great she looked, how 20 years actually made her look better. Just as I don’t accept bullshit from people, I don’t indulge in it myself. I meant it. Maggie looked gorgeous, better than ever. Her perfume anchored my olfactory senses to a time in the past, a happy time. The only thing that ever came between Maggie and me were circumstances. After she finished her PhD she went to Oxford University as a visiting scholar. I met the lady who would become my first wife, and Maggie met some guy from Oxford, married him and divorced a year later. We gradually lost touch. Sometimes you wonder why that happens, but it does, and it did.
Maggie is now a professor of political science at Georgetown, specializing in the Middle East. Like me, she’s been deputized as a provisional CIA agent. She’s completely up to speed on the upcoming Thanksgiving crisis and is on paid leave from Georgetown to work full time at the Agency, most often with Buster.
“Bennie, you look great,” said Maggie as she squeezed my hand. She still seems to be telling the truth. Maybe she has astigmatism. I’m glad that I’ve taken Jack Thurber’s advice that I lose weight and work out every day. I’ve lost seven pounds in the last three weeks. But I haven’t grown back any of my missing hair.
Maggie reached over an patted my bald top.
“I love it,” she said. “It looks sexy.”
I still don’t detect any bullshit, but so what? If she’s lying, I’m liking it, true or not.
We kept on sharing information about ourselves as if we were cramming for an exam. Over the years Maggie had become quite a scholar on the Middle East, hence the interest of the CIA. I tiptoed into the subject area of other men. There are none, which I had a hard time believing, but again, I didn’t detect any lies.
The hour was drawing to a close and I dare not be late for a meeting with Buster.
“I’d like to ask you out on a date,” I said, trying to conjure up my inner romantic.
“I’d love that,” said Maggie, “but we’re all on lockdown until this crisis is over.”
“When can I see you again,” I asked.
“How about all the time,” Maggie said, squeezing my hand.
In the past month I’ve gone through enough weirdness for an average lifetime. Shuttling back and forth through a wormhole and working to prevent a nuclear disaster has consumed my time, to say the least. But this morning is the most amazing event I’ve experienced since I can remember. I met an old girl friend who’s brilliant, beautiful, and single.
And she thinks my bald head is sexy.
Chapter 52
I walked into Buster’s office right on time, which is the way Buster demands. I guess my meeting with Maggie still showed on my face.
“What’s the goofy grin all about, Bennie?” asked Buster.
“It’s about one of your researchers, Maggie Cohen, an old and maybe a new girlfriend,” I said. “Long story. Do you mind if I continue to grin?”
Buster raised his eyebrows as if to say, “yes I’d like to hear about it, but not now.”
We walked into the conference room.
Sitting around the table were Janice, Admiral Frank, and none other than Joe Monahan, legs shackled to the floor. I noticed that Frank’s left hand was bandaged.
“We’re going to lose Admiral Frank,” said Buster, “who’s just been given command of a Carrier Strike Group, so I wanted him to be here for some last minute brain-storming. Congratulations, Admiral. Our loss but the country’s gain.”
“I’ve invited (how do you invite a prisoner?) Joe Monahan so we can review the shocker that we got last night,” Buster continued. “Joe, here’s the bottom line. The drawing that you and Janice made from your memory of the bomb plant, plus the brilliant sleuth work of Trevor McMartin, pointed us at a building in Denver. With the help of Janice we tunneled under the building, intending to soak it in tear gas. What we found was nothing except for five empty suitcases. But Trevor may have come up with a new target. Now I’m going to ask you a few questions. First, does the name Woody Bouchard mean anything to you?”
“Bouchard, yes,” said Joe Monahan, “but Woody doesn’t ring a bell. I seem to recall the word ‘captain’ in front of Bouchard.”
“How about Jones, Gordon Jones?” said Buster.
“Never heard of him.”
“Joe,” said Buster, “as you’re aware, you don’t have jack shit for a security clearance, but the clock is ticking so I’m going to let you in on some Top Secret information. Trevor isolated an 85-foot yacht that may be involved in the plot. By dumb luck, we have a satellite photo of a freighter captained by a Woody Bouchard off the coast of Long Island next to a yacht. We weren’t even looking for it at the time, but came across the satellite photo. Other photos show that the freighter exploded and sank after the yacht pulled away. We picked up the image of the yacht just south of the George Washington Bridge on the Hudson River. The boat was purchased by a man named Gordon Jones with money wired from Yemen. The name of the yacht is Andiamo.”
Joe Monahan rubbed his face and held up his hand to ask for silence while he scribbled some notes.
“The name Sea Bounder comes to my mind. I remember the name coming up in the same discussions as Bouchard. Those conversations also included the name Andiamo. I wasn’t directly involved in any of the discussions, I just overheard them. Remember, al Qaeda has become fanatical about limiting information only to those with an absolute need to know. But all that is beside the point. If your theory is correct, that this yacht is transporting the bombs, we may have a gigantic problem. Three words that you said, Buster, are the scariest I’ve heard in this meeting: George Washington Bridge. If your premise is accurate, and if this wormhole business is in any way true, we know that the future will involve the destruction of lower Manhattan. If you caught Andiamo at the George Washington Bridge, that means they already dropped off at least one bomb. I doubt that they’re looking to blow up Tarrytown. One nuke has already been planted, somewhere south of the George Washington Bridge.”
“Joe,” said Admiral Frank, “we need you to plumb the depths of your excellent memory. We need you to come up with some dots. Don’t worry about connecting them.”
“Admiral,” said Joe, “whatever talents I may have, speaking and understanding Arabic isn’t one of them. I was able to pick up words here and there, but I can’t recall the syntax or relevance. Maybe Doctor Ben over here can help.�
�
***
“I can help,” I said. “Hypnosis is one of the tools in my bag of tricks. Under hypnosis your subconscious mind comes up with stuff that your conscious mind blocks. Thoughts will appear that never registered in your consciousness before. So let me ask you a question, are you willing to undergo hypnosis? Hypnotic suggestion works best when the subject is willing. So how about it, Joe?”
“I think I’ve made it clear from our previous meetings, I don’t care if you people water board me. I want to stop the bombs. Please, Doctor Ben, do what you have to do.”
“Buster,” I said, “I know you like to practice music on the piano upstairs. Do you have a metronome?”
Buster bolted from the conference room into his office and returned with a metronome, a perfect device for inducing a hypnotic trance.
“Now, Joe,” I said, “I’m going to ask you to focus on the arm of the metronome as it tick tocks back and forth. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. You’re feeling relaxed, even drowsy. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. Your left arm wants to point toward the ceiling. Now it wants to return to the table. Joe, I’m going to suggest a list of words and tell me whatever comes into your mind.”
“World Trade Center.”
“9/11”
“Statue of Liberty.”
“Class trip in grammar school.”
“City Hall.”
“Mayor of the City.”
“Wall Street.”
“Location?”
“I say again, Wall Street.”
“Van.”
“Wall Street.”
“Bomb.”
“Wall Street.”
“Explosion.”
“Does the bomb explode on Wall Street?”
“Yes.”
“Where on Wall Street?”
“Location?”
“Trinity Church?”
“Location?”
A Time of Fear: Book Three of The Time Magnet Series Page 12