Box Set - The Time Magnet Series

by Russell Moran

  “Not unless absolutely necessary,” said Janice.

  I think she’s really getting to like this spy stuff.

  Chapter 28

  Janice Monahan here. I never shot anybody before, never even aimed at someone. I’m a good shot with a pistol, even better with a rifle. My dad, a retired Marine sergeant, would take me to the shooting range a lot. He believed that everybody, especially women, should know how to handle a gun. Our evening in the restaurant at the Hotel Al Saeed convinced me that Dad was right.

  Killing is a strange feeling, it leaves a lingering creepiness, and comes back shattering into your consciousness when you least expect it. I now understand how soldiers can suffer from PTSD. There’s nothing nice about shooting someone, but if I didn’t have my Glock on me, we all may have been killed. If we were in some politically correct “gun free zone” in the States we’d just be entries in a police blotter. I think there’s something to the idea that if guns were made illegal, only criminals would have them. I don’t think that nut at the Al Saeed would have been persuaded by a local ordinance and a gun-free sign. I’m not happy about killing the guy, but I don’t feel guilty. I’m alive, and so are my friends.

  So here we are with Jack on our quest to find information on the Atomic Five, one of whom is my murderous bastard of a husband. The sooner we can gather the evidence Jack needs, the sooner we can go back to the States, and the sooner Jack can find the wormhole.

  Jack has finally convinced me of this weird thing called time travel. I’ve bought into this business of Jack going back to 2015 to prevent the Thanksgiving Attacks. I accept the idea that time is a dimension through which a human being can slip. I love the idea that a national tragedy can be prevented, and that 26,000 lives, including Jack’s and Ashley’s, can be saved.

  But I’m having a bitch of a time coming to grips with something that goes along with all of that good stuff. I’m having a hard time buying the idea that Jack Thurber will soon disappear from my life, a really hard time. Okay, I’ve accepted the idea that Jack can save Ashley’s life and his own, and that they can live happily ever after. I know this sounds selfish—the petulant musings of a brat who wants things her way – but I feel like crap.

  I know exactly what I’m supposed to feel. I’m supposed to be happy that Jack Thurber will return to the past and save the day. Obviously that’s how I should feel. But the shitty thing about feelings is that you don’t have control over them, they show up as if you wanted them to be there. My dominant feeling is the pain over the sad fact that I’ll lose Jack, and I’m ashamed of that feeling. But how can I be ashamed of a feeling that’s just there, a feeling that I’m not conjuring up. I didn’t put it there, it’s just there.

  I hate it when people make victims of themselves, and I feel like I’m doing just that. The fact that my murderous scumbag of a husband betrayed me and his country infuriates me. This is where I start to feel like a victim, but I’m not. I’ve got to look at it as a circumstance in my life, one that I had nothing to do with, but one that shouldn’t make me a whimpering fool.

  I think it’s time to get a grip and be an adult.

  All of this is exciting.

  It also sucks.

  Chapter 29

  The Holiday Inn Mukalla wasn’t as upscale as the Al Saeed Hotel, but it was typical of Holiday Inn standards, never opulent but always clean and efficient. We walked into the lobby and I told the clerk we were there to meet a Mr. Salem Yousef. The clerk gestured us toward a meeting room down a corridor. Strong coffee and light snacks awaited us, along with Trevor McMartin.

  Bennie strolled around the room, feigning back pain and checking his email. What he was checking was a device that detects electronic bugs.

  The man was impeccably dressed in a tan summer suit. He wore a blue shirt and an orange tie. He even sported a fresh cut flower in his lapel. His shoes alone must have cost over a thousand bucks.

  I introduced the four of us and I asked if we could call him Trevor.

  “G’day, mates, and yes please call me Trevor (Trevah).” The guy looked like Omar Shariff but sounded like Crocodile Dundee. “Yes, my local name is Salem Yousef, but I prefer my Anglican name Trevor McMartin, not that I get to use it around here very often.”

  We exchanged pleasantries, discussing the weather and the highlights of Yemen. We had agreed not to jump right into discussing our reason for being there, because that would immediately tag us as Americans, not Canadians. Americans have a way of delivering an elevator speech and getting down to business quickly. But we’re Canadians, or at least that’s our cover. Trevor had an expansive, friendly personality, but I noticed that whenever he wasn’t sure what you were asking, his eyes would narrow and focus like lasers.

  “I think you’ve been told, Trevor,” I said, “that we’re doing a feature length article for the Toronto Star about Canadians and Americans who have relocated to Yemen, other than for government or business reasons."

  “You mean your readers are curious why a bloke would leave the beauty of Canada or the States and take up residence in this cesspool?”

  “You get the idea, Trevor,” I said. “People expatriate themselves all the time, but usually for a nicer location like Fiji, Switzerland, or Australia for that matter. We’re trying to get a handle on why people come here. We’ve heard of retired businessmen, politicians and even military personnel coming here. We’re trying to track some of these people down and interview them. We’re especially interested in military types. Why would a former soldier or sailor move to a country that’s in a state of undeclared war with his country. Do you find that strange?”

  “Yes, I do, mate. I have a hard time believing that a Canadian or an American, or any western military person, would come here for any reason. My job is to track down money, but you can’t separate the money from other motives. I mean why would a soldier give up his Western freedoms and come to this rat hole?”

  “Have you heard of any specific military people who have immigrated here?” Wally asked, trying affect an off-hand manner.

  “Yeah, one guy sticks out in my mind,” said Trevor. The fella calls himself Abu Hussein, I believe. I can check that for you. He’s a former American naval officer, I’ve discovered, who showed up here about two years ago. I know about him because he’s got a huge fucking bankroll, which is what caught my attention.”

  “Do you recall his American name, Trevor?” asked Janice.

  “Give me a minute, Luv. First name starts with a “J,” James, John, Joseph — yes, Joseph it is. Last name is Morgan, McLaughlin, Mangan or something. Wait, no, it’s Monahan, yes, Joseph Monahan, aka Abu Hussein.”

  Each of us struggled to keep our jaws from dropping and we all started to perspire. Janice kept twisting a napkin as if she was trying to kill it.

  “Hey, mates, ya want me to turn down the a/c a bit?”

  “That would be great, Trevor,” I said.

  “Have you personally seen him?” Janice asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Of course. I’m a very hands-on money tracker. I once tailed this bloke for a week, going in and out of big American and Swiss banks. He handles a lot of money. What the hell he’s doing here is beyond my imagination. I’ve stood near him when he was speaking to someone. His Arabic is lousy, but he tries hard.”

  “You say he handles a lot of money, Trevor. Any idea where it comes from?” asked Ben/Seamus.

  “No I don’t, but it definitely comes from and goes to the Middle East. He’s a classic money launderer. One day his account is in the millions, the next it’s down to a few thousand, American dollars that is. I have no idea what he’s doing with the money, but he’s funneling it to somebody or something.”

  “Any chance that you have a photo of him, Trevor?” asked Janice, still trying to strangle her napkin.

  “Sure, I have a bunch right here. I’m stupid to carry these around with me, but I had an idea what you folks were looking for.”

  Trevor took out an envelope from his b
riefcase with about a dozen photos of Monahan. He handed them to me and I passed them around. When they got to Janice, she got off her chair suddenly, said that she had too much coffee that morning, and would be right back. We could

  hear her vomiting through the closed bathroom door. The remaining three of us simultaneously cleared our throats to muffle the sound. Trevor’s eyes narrowed.

  Janice returned, her face whiter than the tablecloth. She apologized and sat down.

  The photos came back to me and I leafed through them. One showed Monahan in front of the Yemen Gulf Bank, another in front of the National Bank of Yemen. I held in my hands the most dramatic evidence of Monahan and his whereabouts I could possibly imagine.

  “Can we have copies of these?” I asked Trevor.

  “No worry, mate, just don’t tell anybody where you got them.”

  “Are they time and date stamped?” I asked.

  “They’re all digital on my hard drive. Just click preferences and you get a time and date stamp.”

  My heart was pounding. This was too good to be true. When Buster said he had a good source he had no idea just how good he was. We didn’t even need to meet Monahan. Trevor had taken care of that.

  “Trevor, we have a few other names that have been floating around,” I said. “Mind if I pass them by you?” Trevor agreed.

  “George Quentin, aka Jazeer Mohammed?”

  “He showed up on my radar about a year ago. Last I knew he was in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Another big bank account that grew and shrank daily. Here’s a few pictures.” One of the photos showed Quentin entering the Riyadh Bank.

  “Ralph Martin, aka Fatah Zayyaf?”

  “He was here in Sanaa about six months ago. I think, yes here it is, a picture of him and Monahan in front of the Yemen Gulf Bank.”

  “Frederick Peyton, aka Lashkar Islamiyah?”

  “Him, I don’t know. Let me jot down his names. Maybe you folks are doing me a favor too.”

  “Philip Murphy, aka Mohammed Hussein?”

  “Last I saw of him was in Cairo, Egypt. Here’s a picture of him with a big man from the Muslim Brotherhood.”

  Hoping I wasn’t being too pushy, I asked Trevor if he could email all the photos so I could have digital copies on my laptop. He said he wouldn’t trust email, but that he would back up all the photos onto a flash drive and give them to me the next morning.

  “Trevor, my friend, we can’t thank you enough. Now we just have to locate these men to interview them,” I lied. I knew we couldn’t interview them, but the photos were enough, if not for a newspaper article.

  “Do yourselves a favor, mates. If you really want to interview these blokes, come up with a better line of bullshit than the Canadian newspaper article nonsense. You folks aren’t Canadian newspaper reporters any more than I’m Queen Elizabeth. You’re Americans, and you’re CIA, and that’s fine by me. I love your country and I hate traitors and I’m glad to help out. Just remember, you can’t bullshit me and you can’t bullshit them. You’re about to stick your dicks into a snake pit – whoops, my apologies, Janice. Be careful, my friends. Call me if you need any more help.”

  We said goodbye to our Aussie friend, our new best friend.

  Chapter 30

  Our car pulled to the back of the safe house, where Buster was waiting for us. Once inside, Buster motioned us to a table covered with water, soft drinks, and light snacks.

  “How did your meeting with Trevor go?” Buster asked.

  “That one meeting made this entire trip worth it,” I said. “Thanks to Trevor, we should be ready to wrap up the mission tomorrow and head back to New York.” We told Buster about the photos, the identifications, and the time verified locations of all but one of the targets. I told him that Trevor had already done what we had set out to do.

  “Do you have the photos?” asked Buster.

  “Yes, here they are. But they’re not time and date stamped. That’s why I’m seeing Trevor tomorrow so he can give me a flash drive with copies of all the photos including time and date stamps. I’m meeting him at 9 AM at his hotel.”

  “I don’t like it,” said Buster. “Trevor has been around here for years and knows the ropes as well as a spook, but chances are he’s been seen with you guys. I’ll send one of our operatives to pick up the flash drive. Call Trevor and tell him. Here’s the name and description of our guy. You stay put, Jack.”

  Chapter 31

  My name is Frederick Peyton. I’m a 39-year-old naval officer and the weapons officer of the USS Theodore Roosevelt. It’s no coincidence that I’m in charge of the ship’s weapons department, an assignment I have been planning for almost twenty years. In the military, things get done by taking orders. But knowing one’s way around can get you position you want, maybe not the exact ship, but the right department.

  It isn’t like I’m overly fond of weapons, but my position on the ship is critical to my mission. Yes, I have a mission, and not one that the Navy shares. It isn’t a mission the Navy assigned to me, or one that a superior officer dreamed up. I am on a mission of Allah. My rank says lieutenant commander, but my most proud title is simply jihadi.

  It wasn’t a straight path without detours. Five years after my awakening on a high school trip to Riyadh, I returned to the darkness of the heathen infidels. I became an alcoholic and a drug abuser at the age of 23. I was a naval officer at the time and managed to hide my afflictions from my superiors, but I could not hide them from myself. My marriage was ruined and my life became a pursuit of elusive pleasure. I had turned my back on Allah and I was paying for it. One day the beloved Sheik Abboud called me. He was my spiritual guide and mentor on my trip to Riyadh, a man who had the most profound influence on my life. We met in a park near the pier where my ship was berthed. Just as he did in Riyadh, Sheik Abboud reached in and spoke to my soul. He reminded me of my glorious conversion to Islam when I was a youth of 18, and how Islam changed my world and put me on the path of truth. He also reminded me of the sacred pact that my four young friends and I made those long years ago, a pact to become jihadis in the war against the infidel. He also reminded me of my long-term goal, to be one of the shells in the canon that would blast the heathen hearts of the enemies of Islam. He reminded me why I was in the Navy, and reminded me that I had been specially chosen for our holy mission.

  With the guidance of Sheik Abboud I tossed aside the habits of the infidel and redirected my soul toward heaven. He relit the fire that burned in me on that trip to Riyadh, a fire that burns brighter every day. Soon the apostates will feel the heat of my sacred fire.

  I resumed my double life thanks to Sheik Abboud, the life that was one part all-American naval officer and the other part a warrior in the cause of Islam. The blessed trust that has been placed in me will help bring a new life to the world, a new caliphate, a world ruled by the law of Allah.

  And I have been chosen to be a key in the plan to bring about the new just world.

  Chapter 32

  The Thanksgiving Gang had breakfast at the Al Saeed Hotel at 7:30 AM the next day. It was one of our happiest meals together. Within days we would all head back to New York, and I would catch the wormhole express back to 2015 with my evidence. A waiter came to our table and said that a man was holding for me on the lobby phone. I picked up the phone. It was Buster.

  “The four of you come to the safe house immediately – NOW,” said Buster.

  Our car pulled up to the back of the house. Buster was pacing in the living room when we entered. I’d never seen Buster visibly upset before. He looked like somebody who had to pee but couldn’t find a bathroom. Buster motioned for us to sit.

  “I just met with our operative,” said Buster, “the guy who was supposed to get the flash drive from Trevor. Well, Trevor’s missing. Nobody at the hotel knows where he is. His room’s been ransacked and his computer’s gone. We have to assume the worst, an assumption I don’t want to make, but one that’s obvious. Trevor’s been kidnapped and probably murdered.”


  None of us spoke. Besides the great information he gave us, we had all taken a personal liking to Trevor. It was like hearing that your good friend had been kidnapped. Well, that’s exactly what happened.

  “So we’re back to square one,” I said. “We have to find the bombers and take our own pictures.”

  “Absolutely not, no fucking way,” said Buster. “It’s probably obvious to you that the Agency had a plan B. If your magical trip backwards doesn’t work, we’ll have to track these guys down and take them out to prevent a future attack. But If your plan to return to 2015 does work, then it’s a moot question. In our time, there will never have been the Thanksgiving Attack. We just don’t have enough time to find these guys and get you back to 2015. The photos you have will do, they’ll have to. Hell, you’re not going on trial, you just have to convince some people, especially your wife, Captain Patterson, that you know what will happen on Thanksgiving Day. You guys are going back to New York ASAP. We’re gonna fly you on a CIA jet to Kuwait City, where you’ll catch a U.S. military plane back to the States. The fact that Trevor got kidnapped tells us that the cover is blown, and I have to assume that you people are now targets. You’ll be picked up at the Al Saeed Hotel at 1 PM, two hours from now and I’ll be with you. Headquarters at Langley thinks I may be in the crosshairs too. We’ll travel to the airport in two cars. Make sure to have your weapons handy. Okay, let’s get moving.”