The Temporal (14 page)

New Orleans

McGregor followed the mysterious red-headed woman a few blocks and then turned a corner where a black limousine was idling. With unsmiling lips, she told him to get in. He was prepared to do anything she said as long as she kept her sunglasses on. And yet, inchoate sparks of desire began to grow and burn inside him. Fear had kept the lust at bay, but he knew he would want her eyes again no matter the consequences. He knew it would be soon.

She sat next to him in the back; through the thick crimson curls, he could only see the profile of her nose and the dark rim of her sunglasses. She lifted her head slightly, revealing rich, succulent lips. McGregor tingled with hunger and desire.

She pressed a button and the darkened window between them and the nearly motionless driver whirled down obediently.

“
Go.”

The partition window returned to its closed position and the car move
d forward. McGregor could not see the driver or the road ahead. The windows to his left and right were dark enough to make the bright morning seem to be early evening or perhaps mid-morning with a thunderstorm rolling in.

McGregor watched as block-shaped people were walking and shopping as if nothing had occurred. It made him think how easily distracted uninformed humans can be. Even if they knew of the disaster that just befell some of their fellow human beings, how many hours or days would it be before they began shopping and gossiping again?

Then the scenery changed.

The people faded into the gray buildings and the structures lost the little color they had. This dull gray was replaced by magnificent colors flashing before his eyes. Reds, yellows, and greens. Through the windows to his right, left, and behind, McGregor saw what appeared to be beautifully colored leaves falling from a grand oak on a brisk autumn evening.

And then mere seconds after it begun, it all stopped. The colorful whirlwind and any sense of motion from without the car stilled.

“
Take this list to the editor.” She held out an 9x12 envelope. “Tell her you have knowledge of when and where the next bombs will go off.”

McGregor looked at the woman as if she was speaking ancient Phoenician.

“Leave your name for your alibi, but state emphatically that you want no credit. You only want the truth to get out.”

“
But...”

“
You are a helpful citizen, doing the work the police won’t. The press will love you. Tell them you had tried to warn the police, that you had called 911 to warn them. But they didn’t listen.”

“
But I haven’t...”

“
Yes, you have. Just do as I command.” She touched the brim of her glasses causing McGregor to nod fiercely in obedience while grabbing the envelope. “Good. You will explain that you came across this information online, that a Middle-eastern friend of yours had passed the knowledge on to you. You had not believed your friend until you saw on the news that a bomb had gone off in New Orleans. It was a day earlier than your friend had said, but clearly the information was more than a coincidence.”

“
But, wouldn’t she be suspicious since I’m already in New Orleans?”

She smiled and said,
“Look out the window and tell me what you see.”

McGregor was startled to see the window automatically roll down even
while the woman’s hands remained in her lap. The building directly out his window was huge, but his eyes fell upon the writing above the doors. The gold lettering read: “
Los Angeles Times
145 South Spring Street”

“
H—how?”

“
Go. Tell them you have information regarding the terrorist attack in New Orleans. Warn them of the list. Tell them you expect other cities will experience the same within thirty-six hours. Tell them the information is on condition of anonymity but that you felt compelled to do what is right.”

McGregor nodded.

“Remember,” she said, lowering her sunglasses enough to allow him to see the reflection of stars shimmering off the dark glass. Her voice echoed in his head, filling him with confidence and purpose. “You are Professor McGregor. The world needs you. You are a concerned citizen. You alone can warn them. You alone can stop these bombs from going off. Go!”

The
woman’s glasses once again slid up the bridge of her nose and covered her eyes. As the stars disappeared, McGregor found himself stumbling backward, falling onto the street curb. The car was gone a moment later.

Instead of a feeling of embarrassment, McGregor stood up, brushed off his pant legs
, and while gripping the envelope tightly, he smiled. He knew what to do; he was a new man. He was Todd McGregor, the savior of the world.

San Francisco

Cobbs flipped the switch and verbalized his first impression. “This place is a dump.”

Even with all the lights on and the curtains pulled back, McGregor
’s apartment was a mess, a dark man-made cave, dank with obscene odors. Empty beer and soda cans were scattered throughout the rooms; a single trashcan sat unused in the corner. When they had turned on the lights they heard various scurrying sounds that sounded too large to be cockroaches.

“
Yeah, he was an ass and a pig,” said Sam who even now as a bachelor couldn’t imagine living in such squalor. They had already spoken with his neighbor, Mrs. Felds and had learned her preferred nickname for McGregor—ass.

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.”

“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.