The Temporal (5 page)

When Sam awoke, it was night. He wouldn
’t have noticed the dark figure hovering over his bed had it not moved. But it did, and Sam froze from this unknown terror. The figure was silent save for the occasional exhalation. Sam could hear the flow of air slowly escape from its nose—or from where a nose should have been.

The man-like figure had a face, but Sam
’s eyes couldn’t fix on any details. It wasn’t the darkness or the fact that Sam didn’t have his glasses on, but something else prevented him from seeing the man clearly. It was as if there was a Gaussian blur applied to the man’s features. Sam could see objects lit by the bathroom mirror light in sharp detail, but not the stranger’s face.

“
Who—who are you?”

The stranger shifted and then stood
stock-still, the rough contours of his mouth never moving. He was wearing dark clothes and an even darker overcoat.
An overcoat in August in Japan?

Sam
’s nose then discovered a slightly putrid smell that grew more offensive the longer the man stayed there. It was like the smell of a rotting carcass or that of washed up fish decaying on the beach.

Sam began to pull himself up and away from the figure before him. The bedsprings groaned under his weight, but no amount of effort could separate him from that dark figure before him, silently watching.

In a slow and deliberate motion, the stranger lifted his right arm and placed it firmly on Sam’s forehead forcing him back deep into the bed. The hand felt as if it had the weight of a sledgehammer.

Sam
then realized that there were others.

Two or three other dark figures moved out of the shadows and surrounded Sam. They seemed to be there to observe
—or perhaps to aid the dark man should Sam prove to be more of a struggle than was expected.

The first dark man
’s left hand shot up to reveal a syringe. Sam lost control of his arms as he watched the man insert the needle into his median cubital vein. He could feel the sting to his arm, but his body refused any impulse to move. His arm just lay flat and motionless as if it wanted to aid the man.

Sam, helpless
as he was, watched as the syringe filled with red liquid. It took a moment before his muddled mind realized that the liquid was his own blood. That sudden realization made Sam jerk his head back. In response, the figure in front of him seemed to grow larger somehow.

The creature
that had been a normal man’s size began to grow taller and bigger.

The
figure removed the needle and turned his attention to Sam’s face. As before, Sam could only see that the man had eyes and a mouth, but he could not lock on any detail. After a few minutes, the stranger removed his right hand from Sam’s head and turned his gaze away.

Sam
’s eyelids began to flutter as if he was about to blackout. His hands, now half-way obeying his will, went up, trying to grab the man whom Sam could no longer see. The hands flirted about in vain, grasping at air, slowing with each strike. Then, as his strength left him, his eyelids locked shut and his arms fell to his side, flopping on the bed as a fish too long out of water.

★

It was still pitch-black when Sam awoke with a fright. He bolted out of bed, gripping his chest as if he were experiencing a heart attack. His breathing was hard and irregular, but it was no heart attack.

Had it been a dream?

Could his overactive imagination have concocted a strange dream involving a faceless man that could grow in size?

Sam looked down at his left arm
—the arm the man had drawn blood from. Tilting it toward the soft light from the bathroom, he saw that there was an itchy, red area that could very well have been where the needle went in.

It hadn
’t been a dream...

Or perhaps there had been no monster; it was simply a nurse coming to draw some blood for a test.
His sleepy mind had grafted parts of reality into a nightmare. Either way, the soothing light confirmed that he was now alone in the room.

Sam got up to wash his face. After that, he would
ask a nurse about getting some new clothes. They had dressed him in a hospital gown, but he hadn’t changed since arriving, and after this latest nightmare, he smelled of dried sweat. He had at least two changes of clothes in his backpack, but a new hospital gown still looked more inviting. He decided he would also ask if there had been any blood tests...

“
Williams-san. I’m glad you are awake,” the doctor said, appearing out of nowhere and wiping fresh beads of sweat from his forehead.

Sam was surprised to see the doctor standing in his room; it was after midnight. Sam walked to the doctor while patting his face with a towel.

“Oh, hi, Doctor.”

“
I have good news.”

Sam noticed the doctor was sweating and seemed nervous.

“You are in good enough shape to be let out.”

“
That is good news. Will it be in the morning or can it wait until tomorrow afternoon? I’m waiting for a friend...”

“
I am afraid,” the doctor interrupted, “that you will have to leave now.”

“
Now? It’s midnight.” Sam was shocked and stood there stammering before continuing, “I’m not from here and don’t have a place to stay. Do you have an empty room or even a couch I could use just for the night?”

“
No empty room and someone very sick is waiting for this room.”

“
Couldn’t I crash on a couch in the lobby?”

“
Crash?” the doctor said, raising his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, but hospital rules do not allow non-patients to stay at night. I’m sorry. Let me help you gather your things.”

“
How much is the bill?” Sam asked while the doctor neatly gathered his few belongings together.

“
The bill? Oh, that has been taken care of for you. You needn’t worry.”

“
I don’t understand. Who?”

“
Here you go.” The doctor had just finished packing Sam’s items into his backpack and was nudging him out the door.

“
Wait. I have my hospital gown on. Let me at least change into my own clothes.”

This request seemed to make the doctor nervous, but he handed the backpack to Sam.

“All right, but hurry.” The doctor, as if realizing that he had spoken roughly, added, “I must remind you, someone needs this room very soon.”

“
Of course.”

Sam shook his head and began unzipping the backpack as he shut the door to the bathroom
with his shoulder. He pulled out a plain white T-shirt and his jeans and slipped off his hospital gown.

What
’s going on?
Sam thought about the doctor’s nervous behavior. This was not the conduct of a doctor caring about a patient. Sam was feeling better, but he would have appreciated a little advanced notice of the eviction.

Exiting the bathroom with
“street clothes” on, he noticed the doctor in the doorframe hurriedly motioning for Sam to follow. Sam did so in shock. Japanese hospitality had never been so sterile.

“
Doc, can you at least tell me where the nearest hotel is?”

“
Wakarimasen
—I don’t know. Ask a taxi. Really, we must go.  I’m sorry.”

The doctor was already around the corner and
repeatedly pushing the button to call the elevator before Sam could form a response. The doctor seemed to be a completely different person from the kind, patient, and talkative man from just a day before.

Sam watched the doctor enter the elevator. With one hand, he held open the doors while the other motioned for Sam to enter quickly. Heading toward the elevator, Sam noticed that three of the four rooms he
had passed were empty.

Bushehr, Syria

Fakhr al Din was on the terrorist watch list, but with a secure video conferencing connection, being physically present for the meeting was not a necessity. In fact, most of the participants were not on-site in New Orleans, the primary location for the operation.

The meeting had been short but filled with good news. All cells had reported in and
all had completed their tasks. It had been a long past few months, but all that had been required of him had been accomplished; everything was in place. There had been no mistakes. There was no cause to expect any outcome other than total surprise for the enemy.

There
had been, however, a heated discussion regarding their benefactors. Once it was learned that the financiers were not Muslim, several leaders had expressed extreme concern despite the seemingly limitless supply of funds and support. “Can we truly trust these people?” asked one of them. This was a question not far from the imam’s mind, but a question he would not dare verbalize. He had assured the group with great believability that he had fully researched the financiers’ background and funding sources. He told them he was left completely satisfied regarding their intentions, and that to question any further was to question the imam’s authority.

The truth was, however, he knew only what the red-headed woman told him
, and that was next to nothing. He didn’t even know her name.

The meeting closed in time for the imam
’s evening prayers and for the other participants, their morning prayers. An hour later, the imam decided to retire early.

Fakhr al Din slipped into his large bed and, pulling the
silk bed sheet tight to counter the late August night’s chill, he closed his eyes. As his mind relaxed, he let slip the random thoughts and reminisces that eventually transform into dreams. But before the dreams came, his nose caught a scent that pulled him back to the waking world.

It was a faint
smoky smell.

He opened his eyes
but stayed still, listening and waiting. There were no sounds, just the smell of smoke growing in intensity.

His eyes darted to his right where he sensed the smoke was coming from. There was nothing but black
—a darkness not revealing any shapes or details.

The imam had the sudden realization that he was not alone
when a small red light poked through the darkness. The smoke was not from a fire but from tobacco. It had the particular scent of the Luckies that he favored. Smoking was frowned upon within his sect; the fact that he preferred American cigarettes made this a doubly secret pleasure. He kept a pack hidden in the nightstand in the corner to his right, where the smoke and that light originated.

He leaped off the bed and away from the smoke, rushing to the doorway with two objectives in mind: to turn on the light and to grab the SIG P226 hidden on a shelf above the door.

As his left hand flipped the switch illuminating the room, his right flew to the shelf—an empty shelf.

“
Had I been an assassin,” said a silky voice beyond the bed, “the six guards in the adjacent room would have been quite embarrassed tomorrow morning.”

Fakhr al Din turned with his jaw dropped. The woman, his employer, was sitting on a chair in the corner, smoking one of his cigarettes. She blew out a stream of smoke that resembled a tornado on its side. The smoke hit the tiled wall beside her and quickly disappeared into the grouted edges.

“You know, smoking is terribly bad for your health. And... Lucky Strike? A curious choice. An American brand. And did you know that it was heavily marketed to women in the thirties and forties.” She paused to let out a gruff laugh. “The great Imam of Bushehr smoking an American woman’s cigarette. Paints a pretty picture, doesn’t it?”

The man stood near the doorframe wondering whether he should call for his guards or to
pretend to be happy to see her.

“
Of course, you have already proven your willingness to submit to a woman.”

His hand fingered the
doorknob.

“
Keep the door closed and sit down.”

“
How—?”

“
The door. Move away from it and sit down.”

He had seen the woman
’s power before and did not want a fresh demonstration. The imam complied, sitting on the right side of his bed about ten feet from the woman. She continued puffing on her cigarette, seeming to wait for him to begin.

“
Who are you people?”

“
Friends,” she said as she took the cigarette from her right hand and wedged it between two fingers of her left. Her free hand then went into the inside pocket of her jacket. “Or perhaps, enemy of your enemy is closer to the truth.”

Using her right hand, she pulled an envelope from
the pocket. With a flick of her wrist, the envelope went flying into the air and landed on the bed inches from the imam.

Before turning to the envelope next to him, h
e watched as she returned the cigarette to her right hand and took another nearly silent drag. He then picked up the envelope and examined it. It had a peculiar wax seal that was embossed with a skull and a sickle.

He knew it had to be payment for his services, but he did not dare
break the seal to count the money while in her presence. He gently placed it on a bed stand unopened and then nodded appreciatively.

The woman smothered the cigarette, reshaping it into a deformed butt on a nearby dresser
; there had been no ashtray. 

“
Are all the devices in place?”

“
Yes.”

“
Good. You will find half of your payment in that envelope. You’ll hear from me again soon,” she said, beginning to stand. 

“
Wait. Answer one question.”

She said nothing, but stood there impatiently waiting for him to continue.

He collected his thoughts so his question would be laced with the most respect. The last thing he wanted to do was to provoke any nonverbal reaction from her.

“
You have extraordinary strength. You have incredible speed and agility. I have dozens of men and dogs all around and yet here you are. Why use us? Why not plant the bombs yourself?”

The woman smiled, but said nothing for over a minute. Her face remained unchanged and fixed on him.

He quickly regretted asking. He was normally in charge and was skilled at dominating any person. But not her. He broke out into a sudden sweat. He felt as if he had made an unforgivable mistake; a mistake that could cost him his life. 

She slowly lifted her right hand to the tip of her sunglasses.
 

“
Nev... Never mind. It is none of my business.”

“
Good. I’m glad we see eye to eye. I will be in contact,” she said, removing her glasses completely. 

He couldn
’t believe what he was seeing. A gray mist seemed to creep in from the edges of his eyesight and then quickly turn into a dark mass of thick fog. It was the kind of fog he had experienced as a young man studying at university in London, deep and bewitching. It was not, however, a fearful fog. Something about it was soothing and distracting. 

Distracting from reality.

He fought to dispel the cursed woman’s tricks. His hands flew in random directions in an attempt to scatter the fog away. His head shook violently and he closed his eyes tight.

But even then, he could still see her eyes.

Minutes later—after he had thoroughly given up any hope of escaping those eyes—he relaxed his hands and let his shoulders go limp. Opening his eyes, he saw that no fog remained. The woman was gone and his bedroom was as before. 

Only one thing felt different. His hand was weighted. Looking down, he saw that he was holding his
pistol.