The Temporal

by CJ Martín

  Cobbs had intended to knock on her door after going through his apartment, but before they had even topped the stairs, she was outside ostentatiously watering her plants.

  A conversation ensued. They learned McGregor almost never had visitors which, she had said, “made the men the other day so peculiar.”

  Cobbs noticed Sam and Suteko take particular interest as Mrs. Felds’ described the men. They had clothing covering nearly every part of their body—gloves, overcoats, and excessively large hats—and they had seemed to intentionally hide their faces from her. Then there was the “peculiar and hideous smell. Like cheap cologne with a touch of skunk.”

  Other than a remarkably comprehensive knowledge of McGregor’s rare visitors, Mrs. Felds didn’t really know anything about him. He normally was home by six except for the weekends where he would often come home after midnight drunk. According to Mrs. Felds’ detailed notebook, he had done so every weekend for the past six months. Sam wasn’t sure which he felt more revolted by: The slob McGregor or the busybody Mrs. Felds.

  Cobbs and Sam had made it to the far room—the bedroom—before they realized Suteko had not followed them. They rushed back to the front room, the kitchen area. She was standing there with her arms slightly outstretched and her eyes closed.

  “Suteko...”

  “Shh... Listen, Sam. Listen.”

  Sam mimicked her stance and closed his eyes. After a few moments to calm his mind, he saw something. From the black behind his eyelids, he watched a dark gray shape emerge. It was like the blurring of light behind a thick curtain. The block shape was in motion, perhaps walking. As he further relaxed his eyes, ears, and mind, the shape sharpened, taking on more definition.

  Then another dark gray shape appeared. He could see now. The gray shapes were people. The hats, the sunglasses, the gloves—these were McGregor’s visitors, the Nephloc. He had a hard time focusing, but the area that should contain the mouth on one of them was moving. Like an old film with the audio and video not quite in sync, his eyes saw movement before his ears registered any sound.

  But the sound came.

  First, it was all muffled, incoherent blasts of reverberation. With some concentration, the echoes began to almost sound like language.

  Then he heard it.

  “President...”

  Sam heard the word distinctly. The words following, however, reverted to mumblings.

  President? An attempt on the president’s life?

  Sam redoubled his efforts; his mind focused and he began building a barrier between his mind and his five external senses, trying to give priority to his inner intuition. He would not allow any noise, touch, smell, taste, or sight to break his concentration.

  “Beyond your imagination...”

  His mind was racing with excitement and terror. He had learned to control the echoes as one would tune into a faraway radio station—tweaking the frequencies this way or that way to bring the reception into greater clarity. Without utmost attentiveness, the sounds would quickly devolve into meaningless mumblings.

  “True believer…”

  Yes! The man who was speaking lifted a stump of gray that Sam quickly understood to be the man’s right arm. The hand reached to his eyes and removed something. What was it? What else could it be? Glasses. The gray disappeared and was replaced by a pure black, a black unlike any Sam had seen before. No, the intensity reminded him of something—it was like the terrible sound of trumpets he had heard during the earthquake. The colors had been equally intense, although visual instead of audible. In the distance, stars began to poke through the sheer black. Beautiful stars. Voices sounded again.

  It was then that Sam heard it:

  “President McGregor…”

  Sam’s eyes jacked opened. Gone were the stars, the curtain, and the gray men. Gone were the voices. He had lost it all upon the shock of those last words.

  He was panting shallow but rapid breaths. He felt beads of sweat roll down his cheeks—or were those tears? He had no idea how or when, but Cobbs and Suteko were at his side supporting him, holding his arms and staring at him with looks of shock and concern. His legs felt unstable.

  “Are you okay?”

  Sam nodded without fully comprehending the question. They maneuvered him to the only chair in the kitchen area.

  “What did you see?” asked Suteko.

  “I saw the two men.”

  “Mrs. Felds’ visitors?” asked Cobbs.

  “Yes. Hat. Gloves. Gray everything. Everything was gray—except the eyes. Dark, dark pitch-black eyes. And then stars.”

  “You saw stars?” Suteko rushed in front of Sam and looked into his eyes as if she were a doctor observing how his pupils would react to light.

  “Yes. Only for a moment. Before that, I heard a few scattered words, but after the stars, I heard one of them say, ‘President McGregor.’ Then everything went away. I’m afraid I... I lost all concentration from the shock of those words.”

  Suteko straightened and looked at Cobbs.

  “We must contact the old man.”

  “Suteko,” Sam said, feeling almost as if he could stand by himself. “What does this all mean? Is that what you saw?”

  “No.” She looked him directly in the face. “No, Sam. I did not see that. I didn’t see or hear anything. I now know why they wanted you and why I was sent to protect you. None, from among the Temporal, have ever been able to do this.” She moved in front of him and, grabbing both of his arms, she said, “Sam, you alone can hear echoes of the Nephloc.”

  Chapter 29

  “Mr. McGregor, I’m Agent Hearn and this is Agent Gally. Please have a seat.”

  McGregor sat down and took a sip from the still hot coffee the secretary had brought him earlier. He was wearing sweatpants and an old T-shirt. His hair looked like it had never met a comb; by the stubble on his chin, it seemed he was still improving on the five o’clock shadow from the previous day.

  “I’m very sorry for my appearance,” McGregor said by way of introduction. “But I think you will understand why I didn’t waste any time changing my clothes when you hear what I have to say.” A theatrically nervous hand finger-combed his hair into place.

  “Our associate downstairs said you have some information regarding the bombing in New Orleans. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir, but I think there are other bombs and that the one in New Orleans went off prematurely.” McGregor smiled inwardly as he noticed the two agents looking at each other with obvious interest.

  McGregor thought he must have had the greatest alibi in history.

  He had set off the bomb mere hours before and here he was thousands of miles away framing some terrorist patsy to the FBI.

  “You see, I teach history and social studies at a college just outside of San Francisco, but my main interest and specialty lie in Middle Eastern studies. I have been doing some research for a book on modern al-Qaeda splinter groups. I am most interested in Shi’ite Muslim extremists who have adapted the Sunni al-Qaeda playbook.”

  He took another sip from his coffee, thoroughly enjoying playing these agents who desperately wanted him to get to the meat. He’d, of course, had no experience or knowledge regarding Islam prior to meeting the woman. She had filled him with innate knowledge unlearned and yet it had been indelibly seared into his memory as if he had spent years in serious study.

  “Yes, go on, Mr. McGregor.”

  “Oh, yes. This morning—two hours ago, in fact—I was on Skype to interview Fakhr al Din, an extremist whose militant group is called, ‘Warriors of the Sword.’ He is from the Bushehr Province in Southern Iran. He is very important within the Shi’ite world and... Well, I think it best to just show you.”

  McGregor lifted his backpack to his lap and pulled out a small USB thumb drive.

  “I always record my Skype interviews. A matter of habit.”

  Upon hearing that, one of the agents quickly left the room and returned with a 13-inch MacBook Air. Seconds after plugging the
thumb drive into one of the USB ports, a video of a Skype session began playing.

  “Please remember,” McGregor said while the video showed Skype connecting, “I had to act like I was one of them.”

  The two agents nodded and turned their attention to the small laptop screen.

  “Salaam, Mr. McGregor. Tomorrow will be remembered as the day the Great Satan began its inevitable downfall.” The voice coming from the laptop speakers was heavily accented, but in English.

  “As-Salamu Alayka.” This was McGregor’s voice. The video only showed the terrorist, but the recorded audio was of both ends. “May it be as you say. But should I be concerned? Am I in any danger?”

  “No, my friend. Out of respect for you, your city will be spared... for now.”

  “What will happen?”

  “You know I cannot say. But the Strangler assures me that—Allah willing—many Americans will die.” The voice paused momentarily to let the words sink in. “After tomorrow, no one will remember Osama bin Ladin. The name Fakhr al Din will be on everyone’s lips. Of the righteous, there will be blessings upon the name. The cursed will curse as only they know how.”

  “I hope you will reserve an exclusive interview with me once your fame has been established.”

  “Nothing would give me more pleasure. However, you will have a heavy responsibility. Many Americans are waking from their demon’s spell. Many will be responsive to our message. But you—you, Mr. McGregor—will have to interpret my words so those fools will understand. Soon, America will be a curiosity of history and the ways of Allah will reign supreme!”

  “May it be according to your words.”

  “Tomorrow we shall speak again.”

  The video ended abruptly. Had McGregor continued to record, the agents would have seen a most unusual sight. The face of a battle-worn terrorist would have morphed into that of beautiful woman with long red curls. Just the thought of her excited him. She was deadly and powerful, but something about her stirred him to his core. As horrific as her eyes were, he wanted them; he wanted her.

  “Mr. McGregor, I am sure you realize how important this information is. Right after the explosion in New Orleans, someone leaked a list of cities and claimed there is at least one bomb in each of those cities. The news agency in question was not willing to hold the story even to save lives. I didn’t think it had been released yet, however. Were you aware of this?”

  “I’m sorry, but I wasn’t. Once I finished the Skype session, I began thinking of whom I should share this with, but after I heard about the New Orleans bomb, I gathered my things and headed right here.”

  “You said you believed there were multiple bombs and that this bomb went off prematurely. How did you know that?”

  “Yes, I was guessing on the multiple bombs because Fakhr al Din never exaggerates and by his words, it sounded big. I surmised that the bomb went off prematurely, because he said it wouldn’t happen until tomorrow.”

  “He mentioned, ‘the Strangler,’ who is that?” asked one of the agents.

  “I believe the Strangler is an operative somewhere in the D.C. area. I have been keeping a record of all the names that are mentioned in my communications, but I’m afraid they are all code names and I have very little hard data.”

  “Any information you have would be greatly appreciated.”

  “There is a folder on that thumb drive with a document detailing all I know.”

  “Thank you Mr. McGregor. Is there anything else you’d like to tell us?”

  “Ah, yes, one more thing. I believe there are at least two non-Muslims working with the Warriors of the Sword. An American man and a Japanese woman. I don’t have enough evidence to be conclusive, but their names pop up more often than would be statistically a coincidence. You’ll find their information in that file as well. Again, I don’t want to falsely accuse someone, but... well, I’m sure you will do your job.”

  McGregor left the building with the knowledge that the woman would be pleased. He yearned to see her again. And when he did, he would take his well-deserved reward. He would look into her eyes.

  Chapter 30

  A thorough search of McGregor’s apartment turned up precious little. It became painfully obvious that the man had little regard for his health. In addition to soft drink containers and candy bar wrappers sprawled across the floor, there were dirty clothes, books, and the occasional syringe. His bookshelf held mostly adult DVDs and some old VHS tapes but no VHS player. There was no computer to sort through files, no personal journal to read, and nothing handwritten—not even a grocery list on his refrigerator.

  Feeling like they had accomplished nothing, the three headed out to the apartment parking lot.

  “It is almost as if a cleaning crew came in before us,” said Cobbs as he spotted their Honda.

  “A cleaning crew?” asked Sam. “The place is worse than a dump.”

  “Not that kind of cleaning crew. Someone doesn’t want us to learn much about who McGregor really is.”

  As they approached the rental car, Cobb’s cell warbled in his pocket. He took the call while pulling out his keys. Concentrating on the phone conversation, he just stood there with the key inches from the car door lock, ready to be inserted. After a few mumbled monosyllabic words and rapid fire questions, he said, “Let me know if you have anything else,” and closed the phone.

  He turned to Suteko and Sam. “That was an old friend of mine—Paul Simmons from the Bureau. The bomb in New Orleans was set off prematurely—thirty-six hours earlier than McGregor had planned, right? I just learned that there was to be a conference on Middle Eastern policies on the third floor of that building. It would have taken place thirty-six hours after the bomb was planted. The conference was only supposed to host a few dozen attendants, but the names are all A-List.” He leaned in to emphasize his words. “A-List.”

  “That, Agent Cobbs,” Suteko said, sounding as if waking from a dream, “isn’t too surprising, but this gives us a lead. We have a list of cities and we know what message they wanted to send in New Orleans. Get your men on finding similar events occurring at that time in the other cities.”

  “They are already on it,” Cobbs said as he began to thrust his keys forward. “I’ll...”

  “No!” Sam yelled, lurching forward and slapping Cobb’s hands away from the car. The keys flew from his hands and to the ground. “Something has been here.”

  “Yes,” Suteko said with a sudden concerned expression on her face. “I hear strange echoes too.”

  “What? What was here?”

  Sam jerked to his left and then right, his eyes wide and frantically in search of someone or something. The apartment building was small, but the half-filled parking lot was large enough to hold about fifty cars. One border was wooded, providing cover for anyone wanting to hide. Another border was a street and the other two sides were buildings, one being the apartment building itself. Sam kept looking, searching for something Cobbs and even Suteko didn’t know was there.

  “Talk to me boy—what do you mean something was here?” Cobbs didn’t like being the one with no information. He liked it even less now that the main source of intelligence was coming from Sam’s head.

  “Two Nephloc. Well, one Nephloc and one... something else. They were here very recently. Don’t touch the car. It isn’t safe.”

  Cobbs pulled out his weapon, a Glock 23. Suteko had spoken a little about these Nephloc, a kind of evil version of her: physically strong, but helpless to do only the evil its master bids. He began to swing his weapon wildly looking for any movement around the few cars and foliage.

  Sam motioned to Cobbs. “Put that away. It could call attention to us. It is useless against them.”

  Suteko looked at Sam with a raised eyebrow.

  Sam didn’t seem to notice. He was beginning to accept certain unlearned knowledge that came from somewhere beyond his five senses. He was focused, completely absorbed in discovering the Nephloc that he alone knew lurked nearby.

&n
bsp; “I know you are there!” Sam’s eyes were narrow and busily scanning the shrubbery. “Show yourself!”

  While Sam continued to search for the Nephloc, Cobbs carefully knelt to look under the car. A foreign object—no doubt a hastily attached car bomb—was attached beneath the fuel tank.

  In a voice calm and low, Cobbs stood and backed up. He said, “We need to move away from the car now.”

  Sam was too busy scanning the area and failed to register the urgency in Cobb’s voice.

  “Bomb. Get...”

  The sound of the explosion punctured Sam’s ears. Before he could turn to try to understand what had just happened, his body absorbed a wave of energy; what couldn’t be absorbed sent Sam flying into a nearby Prius. His legs hit the hood of the car with bone-shattering force. The top half of Sam’s body folded, slamming his face into the glass of the windshield while the bottom half followed over and behind. He was instantly on the ground—on the other side of the car.

  Seconds or minutes later, Sam heard Suteko’s voice calling. It was her voice, but it echoed.

  “H...here.”

  Suteko appeared and knelt beside Sam.

  “Sam, can you move?”

  He was face down on the pavement looking at the tire of some white mini-van. His eyes were functional but stung as if a gallon of salt water had been poured over them. Looking down, he could see a bloodied arm with a large gash. He was surprised to see its fingers begin to curl up; then he realized the fingers were obeying his will to move and the bloodied arm was his.

  He attempted to straighten his leg. His right leg moved, but it shot powerful and pulsating waves of pain to his brain. Uncontrollable screams of agony flew from his mouth.

  “Hold still.”

  Suteko ran her hands up and down his legs, feeling and gently massaging.

  “This may hurt a little.”