Chapter 49
Six Days, One Hour, Thirty-Five Minutes
"In four days ... at precisely 12:08 pm, Eastern Standard Time ... a Saudi Arabian businessman named Majd el Din Zamal will be killed an act of terrorism that takes place on American soil," Parker announced to the quorum of expectant faces around the table, all of them focused on him. "I can't be entirely certain about your timeline, but from where I'm from this will be the first successful act of terrorism following 9/11."
"What did you say his name was?" Talmadge asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Majd el Din Zamal," the chrononaut replied. Quickly, he added, "He used to deal in oil, but, since the late 1980's, he's been principally involved in humanitarian work around the Middle East." Parker shook his head. "Don't go pulling out any of your top secret files, Bradley. You won't find his name anywhere unless it's been written in invisible ink. He isn't mentioned in any intelligence briefing. Zamal isn't part of any threat matrix profile, and the CIA or the FBI is not monitoring his activities. You won't find him listed on any Homeland Security watch-list, either."
"Why is that?" Talmadge tried. "What's our interest in him?"
"He's what you might call an anonymous ally," Parker answered. "His codename is Lone Ranger, and, so far as I know, it's only used in Presidential memos. I'm not talking about the 'general alerts' variety. I'm talking about those concealed by Executive Privilege." The man shifted a bit in his chair, trying to get more comfortable under the weight of the suit, but nothing changed. Instead, he reached for the climate control and lowered the internal temperature a few more degrees. "What I know is the basic stuff: at the behest of the President, Mr. Zamal was coordinating his work with the Secretary of State, so everything – every telephone call, every meeting – was completely on the up-and-up. Our end of the bargain was to keep his identity secret ... but, apparently, we failed ... or we will fail, if we don't keep this event from happening." He gestured with his hands in the air. "You know how most Arabs feel about good ole Uncle Sam? We're not exactly kissin' cousins. Zamal didn't want to take any chance at being caught collaborating with the enemy. It was for his protection, and it was for the safety of his family."
"What was this Mr. Zamal working on?" Michelson interrupted rashly. "You said he was originally involved in the sale of oil. What? Was he lowering prices ... or was he simply trying to make a bigger barrel?"
Smiling, Parker nodded. "That's cute, Channing. That's really cute. In another lifetime – maybe in another timeline – I might've said the same thing."
"I hope you're not expecting me to take that as a compliment."
"Take it any way you like."
"Frank," Talmadge piped in, trying to keep the conversation not only civil but on track. "In what capacity was this Zamal serving U.S. interests?"
"That's a million dollar question, Bradley," he said. "The truth is ... Zamal wasn't. At least, he wasn't directly serving any U.S. cause." He leaned forward, resisting the pressure of his suit to hold him back in his chair. "What he did was very indirect, and the White House wanted it kept hush-hush." Realizing every pair of eyes was on him, he announced, "As it turns out, Zamal was the principle architect for what appeared to be a very real possibility for a lasting peace plan in the Mid-East." Again, Parker held up his hands, hoping to stave off any nonbelievers. "Now, I know what you're thinking. It's a fool's paradise, right? Yeah. That's what I thought, too ... until I learned that Mr. Zamal had already held meetings with the heads of state of Israel, Iran, Jordan, Syria, and a few other hotspots that don't need a mention."
"So what?" Ramsey interrupted. "So this Zamal character was supposedly serving the peace process. That's great, Parker, but it isn't as if any peace plan over there ever lasts. Hell, even their cease fires need cease fires."
"This is different, Ramsey," Parker tried with conviction. "Apparently, Zamal was using his business contacts to forge alliances between these countries in ways that kept them silent partners with one another. He was – he is – the intermediary." He knocked on the tabletop. "Think about it: here are these countries that haven't been willing for the last century to sit down together as so much as a picnic table ... but Zamal had them working together without their knowledge!" He controlled his enthusiasm, realizing that he probably wasn't winning over any skeptics. "All I can tell you is that, based on what I was told, he was making progress ... that's why the President ordered the NSA Oversight Committee to send me back seven days to save his hide from the blast."
"The blast?" Olga asked, suddenly captivated by the conversation.
"The act of terrorism I mentioned at the beginning," Parker explained. "As it turns out, Zamal is coming here."
Glancing up with beaming eyes, Mentnor muttered aloud, "Bradley, that's it. That's the other end of the parallelogram! Zamal! It's not an event! It's a person!"
"Here?" Talmadge tried. "Zamal is coming to the United States?"
"To D.C.," Parker confessed.
"What for?"
Grimacing, Parker shrugged. "I couldn't say. That part we never figured out. Don't get me wrong. We did all of the digging we could, no pun intended, but we never learned why he was here. All I know is that he arrived at this hotel in the D.C. area – it's called the Heston Tower. Moments after he checked in, the entire place went up in an explosion."
"Good lord," Finkle thought aloud. "Here comes a man of peace, and he's brought down by an act of war."
"Ironic, isn't it?" Nina asked.
"The Heston?" Donovan suddenly spoke to the crowd via the teleconference link. "Frank, you've got to be kidding! That's one of the premiere hotels in Washington! It's been on the fast track for the last year. The British Prime Minister is staying there now, but he'll be gone by tomorrow evening." The man relaxed in his chair, brushing a hand across his hair. "Hell, I know most of their staff security! I've briefed and debriefed them when some of the political bigwigs come to town. Several of the Heston's staff are actually former Navy SEALs, Frank ... the kind of guys you and I used to hang out with." Confused, he shook his head. "I doubt very much that there's any way for a terrorist group to infiltrate the place."
Surrendering, the chrononaut held up his hands. "Look, all I know is all I know. And, from what I know, I can tell you that, in four days, Heston Tower goes boom, Zamal is killed in the explosion, and our nation's prayers for peace in a foreign land gets buried under the rubble."
"This is going to be easier than I thought it would be," Michelson taunted. "All we have to do is evacuate the hotel. Have Donovan call the D.C. police. Have Heston Tower closed for a few days."
"It's never that simple," Olga offered, sinking into her chair. She had been awake for more hours than she could remember, and she desperately needed rest. Every member of the staff did.
"We could do that, Channing," Mentnor said, watching invisible variables floating in the space in front of him, "but who's to say that would stop the terrorist's from achieving Zamal's death elsewhere?"
Talmadge feverishly jotted several notes on the legal pad he had placed before him. "Frank, did anyone claim responsibility?"
Parker nodded. "We believe the man responsible for the explosion operates out of Damascus. His name is Richard DeMarco. From what I recall, he's due to arrive on a TransGlobal charter flight the day before the blast."
Everyone at the table heard the rumble in Craig Donovan's throat.
"Um, Frank?"
"Yeah."
"Did you say Richard DeMarco?"
"Yes, I did."
"Tell me that you didn't."
"Donovan, what is it?"
"Frank," Donovan offered easily, "DeMarco is already here."
The chrononaut sat up in his chair. He suddenly flushed with an intense heat. Was the suit getting warmer again, or was it a bout of unexpectedly bad news?
"What did you say?"
"I said, Richard DeMarco is here."
"Where?"
"He's in Washington," Donovan explained. "That's all I know."
"That's impossible."
"Not entirely," Mentnor finally spoke up from his end of the table. Everyone in the room focused their attention on the white-haired scientist. "Frank, you have to keep in mind that we're not dealing with absolutes." He held his right hand. "In your timeline, DeMarco didn't arrive until the day before he blew up the Heston." Next, he held up his left hand. "In our timeline – while it does bare very distinct similarities to yours – he's already here." He placed his hands back on the table. "Despite how hard we examine the possibilities, it's painfully obvious to me that these two universes aren't exactly mirror images of one another."
"DeMarco is here, Frank," Donovan confirmed.
"But for what?" Olga interjected. "I mean ... let's take a look at the facts." Having gathered the attention of the conference group, she sat up proper in her chair. "To the best that we've been able to calculate, everything that Mr. Parker has told us about his timeline coincides – or I should I say 'will coincide' – with the events that are destined to occur in our timeline. If we assume that all things are equal, then mustn't we also assume that Mr. DeMarco's early arrival in our timeline serves some other purpose? Maybe he's not here to kill Mr. Zamal at all. Maybe he has another target in mind."
"If that's the case," Michelson offered, "then how do we even know where to begin?"
"That sounds reasonable," Nina finally contributed to the dialogue. "But – and please keep in mind that I'm new to what you people have quite probably been doing for some time – how could we possibly speculate what DeMarco's true purpose is?"
Shifting his attention to the video link, Talmadge immediately took control of the debate. "Craig, how did you know about DeMarco?"
"He's the prime suspect in an arson case the D.C. area police are investigating right now," Donovan answered.
"Arson?" The director drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Nothing with explosives?"
His eyes wide, the NSA agent sat back in his chair. "Not to my knowledge, Bradley." Quickly, he picked up a pen and wrote something down off screen. "I'll make a telephone call. I'm pretty tight with one of the local detectives. I help him out, he throws me a bone. So far as I've been told, DeMarco torched a compartment at one of those you-store-it facilities outside of town."
"What did he torch?" Ramsey asked. "What was in the compartment?"
"That's what has me bugged," Donovan answered, his eyes rolling. "DeMarco lit a match to a cache of weapons."
"What kind of weapons?"
"Pistols, mostly, from what the report reads," Donovan continued. "I mean ... he tried to burn stuff that wouldn't even burn."
From his chair, Ebdon Finkle rapped his knuckles on the table hard and snapped, "He's sending every one of you a message."
The director nodded at the old man. "How do you mean?"
"Well," Finkle began, slowly studying the inquisitive faces that surrounded him at the conference table, finding himself in the thick of a situation he never dreamed possible, "I think it's safe to say that I hold the record for living the longest with your team, Mr. Talmadge. Don't get me wrong. I'm not a bitter old man. I've lived a good, full life, and I'm happy to be here. I'm happy to help all of you in any way that this old coot can." Olga and Nina smiled at him, and he continued. "But, in my years, I've seen things. I've seen ugly things. I've seen the kind of things that ... well, that men just don't want to talk about after it's over." He pointed at Donovan. "This DeMarco fellow you're talking about reminds me of exactly the way I felt about Adolf Hitler during World War II. I served my country. I killed my share of men, and I have medals that don't mean a thing to me except to show how proud I was to serve the great nation. But Hitler?" Finkle shook his head in disgust. "That was one crazy sonuvabith. He talked a good game. He fooled most of the German people. The officers close to him felt otherwise, but they never did anything about it. And do you know why? It wasn't because they were afraid of losing their lives. Officers and soldiers eventually get used to the idea that they could fall in combat – or they could lose their lives – or they could lose a limb – at any given moment. Like I said, you get used to it. Hitler's officers got used to it." Shaking his head, Finkle said, "The reason those men never did anything about stopping the lunatic was because they were in the exact same situation that you folks are in right now: how do you stop a man who's willing to march in and take a country just because he can do it?" His eyes welled up with moisture, and Parker thought that the man was about to break. "Hitler wasn't evil. Evil you can understand. Evil you can accept. Evil you can fight and lock it away so that it never harms another hair on the head of a child anywhere. But crazy?" He closed his eyes. "The only way you deal with the crazy is to kill it because the crazy don't belong in a sane world."
"I think he's right," Donovan agreed.
"Why's that?" Talmadge asked.
"Because DeMarco didn't make any attempt to hide his identity from the security cameras at the storage facility," the man explained. "It's like he wanted to be filmed."
"Do you mean ... it's like he wanted to be caught?" Parker offered.
"Caught in the act is more like it," Donovan said. "What doesn't make any sense is why? Why would he want to do that?"
"He's crazy," Finkle repeated. "He wants to win the gold medal at the Screw-Loose Olympics."
Michelson interrupted with, "He's sending a message."
"To whom?" Olga asked.
"It isn't about who receives the message," Michelson theorized. "It's the fact that he's a terrorist – he's a known terrorist – and he's on our soil. He's showing us that he can get away with arson. What's next? Murder? If what Frank said is true, then we know that DeMarco is bound to try."
Tapping a gloved finger on the conference table, Parker observed, "We're going to keep him from succeeding."
Smiling at his adversary, the man agreed, "Of course, we are. That is what we do. That's why I'd offer you the argument that his message isn't intended for us. It's intended for someone else. Don't misunderstand me. DeMarco wants an audience. What we need to do is figure out who that audience is. That will bring us one step closer to staying ahead of him, and that's the only way we're going to save Mr. Zamal's life. Given the fact that DeMarco's arrived earlier – much earlier than in Frank's timeline – that's going to be critical for the success of this mission."
"That's pretty much my read on things from this end as well, Bradley," Donovan added. "If DeMarco is here, then he isn't behaving like a textbook terrorist. He's clamoring for attention, at this point. The police have his picture, so they'll be on to him. I think what I need to do is shadow their work." He glanced at the group from the other side of the camera lens. "Let me explore the DeMarco angle while you're getting the team to Washington. I'll have a full report for you when you touch down."
"Craig," Talmadge began, his voice sounding official again, "I don't need to warn you about being careful."
"Since I've been on leave from BackStep, I've been nothing but careful," the man chuckled. "Let me tell you: careful is boring."
"Regardless, don't take any unnecessary risks, Donovan," Ramsey blurted out from his seat. "You may be on leave, but you're still one of the team. I won't lose a man on my watch."
"Thanks, Nate," Donovan admired. "Once you're on my turf, you can watch my back for me."
"It'd be my honor."
"That's it, people," Talmadge announced, rising as the video link between NeverNeverLand and Washington D.C. went dead. "I've a plane standing by. I want to be airborne within two hours." He gestured at one of the women. "Dr. Welles? I'm going to ask that you join us. Your experience in treating anyone exposed to temporal contamination – should the unlikely event occur – will be invaluable."
"Yes, sir," she agreed.
"Mr. Finkle?" Talmadge smiled. "I'm afraid I have the authority to reactivate your service to the United States government, and I'm exercising that option."
With a crooked smile, the man tried, "You mean I've been drafted? Again?"
The director chuckled. "Yes, but I promise you that you won't be confined to rations just as yet. As it stands, you're the only one that can get near Frank Parker without being affected should the need arise. Olga has arranged the necessary clearance for you. You won't be a field agent so much as you'll serve as a consultant. I'll take your oath of celibacy before we've boarded the aircraft.
"Also, Isaac will be joining us until further notice. His assignment to the BackStep Program has been reactivated, and, with his connections in Washington, he'll come in handy should we be asked to brief the President or members of the Cabinet on matters of national security."
Briskly, he clapped his hands together. "That's it, people. You have work to do. Let's get to it."
Everyone rose from the conference table with the notable exception of Frank Parker. The director stepped past his staff filtering past him, and he sat back down in the chair next to the suited chrononaut.
"There's something that's bothering me, Frank."
Parker turned his head, and he realized that, under the helmet, he had begun to sweat. Again, he tapped the sensor pad, lowering the suit temperature. "What is it, Bradley?"
"Mr. Zamal," the director admitted. "You know that inner workings of Washington as well as I do." He folded his hands on the table and thought aloud. "If Zamal had been asked by the President to come to the United States, then the Secret Service would have been responsible for his safety and security. Agents would have met him at the airport. They would've been with him every step of the way. Without a doubt, they would've cleared Heston Tower of any possible threat, especially given what Craig has said about the hotel's security staff. So ... I'm going to go out on a limb here with the suggestion that Mr. Zamal was not here at the official request of our government ... was he?"
Slowly, Parker shook his head.
Talmadge smiled. "I didn't think so," he stated. "Do you have any idea of what he was doing here?"
Parker sighed. His breath momentarily fogged over the faceplate near his nose and mouth. He thought about his answer for a long moment before he finally said, "Unfortunately, that's the one thing that – as hard as we looked – we never found out."
End of Chapter 49
Six Days, One Hour, Thirty-Five Minutes
"In four days ... at precisely 12:08 pm, Eastern Standard Time ... a Saudi Arabian businessman named Majd el Din Zamal will be killed an act of terrorism that takes place on American soil," Parker announced to the quorum of expectant faces around the table, all of them focused on him. "I can't be entirely certain about your timeline, but from where I'm from this will be the first successful act of terrorism following 9/11."
"What did you say his name was?" Talmadge asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Majd el Din Zamal," the chrononaut replied. Quickly, he added, "He used to deal in oil, but, since the late 1980's, he's been principally involved in humanitarian work around the Middle East." Parker shook his head. "Don't go pulling out any of your top secret files, Bradley. You won't find his name anywhere unless it's been written in invisible ink. He isn't mentioned in any intelligence briefing. Zamal isn't part of any threat matrix profile, and the CIA or the FBI is not monitoring his activities. You won't find him listed on any Homeland Security watch-list, either."
"Why is that?" Talmadge tried. "What's our interest in him?"
"He's what you might call an anonymous ally," Parker answered. "His codename is Lone Ranger, and, so far as I know, it's only used in Presidential memos. I'm not talking about the 'general alerts' variety. I'm talking about those concealed by Executive Privilege." The man shifted a bit in his chair, trying to get more comfortable under the weight of the suit, but nothing changed. Instead, he reached for the climate control and lowered the internal temperature a few more degrees. "What I know is the basic stuff: at the behest of the President, Mr. Zamal was coordinating his work with the Secretary of State, so everything – every telephone call, every meeting – was completely on the up-and-up. Our end of the bargain was to keep his identity secret ... but, apparently, we failed ... or we will fail, if we don't keep this event from happening." He gestured with his hands in the air. "You know how most Arabs feel about good ole Uncle Sam? We're not exactly kissin' cousins. Zamal didn't want to take any chance at being caught collaborating with the enemy. It was for his protection, and it was for the safety of his family."
"What was this Mr. Zamal working on?" Michelson interrupted rashly. "You said he was originally involved in the sale of oil. What? Was he lowering prices ... or was he simply trying to make a bigger barrel?"
Smiling, Parker nodded. "That's cute, Channing. That's really cute. In another lifetime – maybe in another timeline – I might've said the same thing."
"I hope you're not expecting me to take that as a compliment."
"Take it any way you like."
"Frank," Talmadge piped in, trying to keep the conversation not only civil but on track. "In what capacity was this Zamal serving U.S. interests?"
"That's a million dollar question, Bradley," he said. "The truth is ... Zamal wasn't. At least, he wasn't directly serving any U.S. cause." He leaned forward, resisting the pressure of his suit to hold him back in his chair. "What he did was very indirect, and the White House wanted it kept hush-hush." Realizing every pair of eyes was on him, he announced, "As it turns out, Zamal was the principle architect for what appeared to be a very real possibility for a lasting peace plan in the Mid-East." Again, Parker held up his hands, hoping to stave off any nonbelievers. "Now, I know what you're thinking. It's a fool's paradise, right? Yeah. That's what I thought, too ... until I learned that Mr. Zamal had already held meetings with the heads of state of Israel, Iran, Jordan, Syria, and a few other hotspots that don't need a mention."
"So what?" Ramsey interrupted. "So this Zamal character was supposedly serving the peace process. That's great, Parker, but it isn't as if any peace plan over there ever lasts. Hell, even their cease fires need cease fires."
"This is different, Ramsey," Parker tried with conviction. "Apparently, Zamal was using his business contacts to forge alliances between these countries in ways that kept them silent partners with one another. He was – he is – the intermediary." He knocked on the tabletop. "Think about it: here are these countries that haven't been willing for the last century to sit down together as so much as a picnic table ... but Zamal had them working together without their knowledge!" He controlled his enthusiasm, realizing that he probably wasn't winning over any skeptics. "All I can tell you is that, based on what I was told, he was making progress ... that's why the President ordered the NSA Oversight Committee to send me back seven days to save his hide from the blast."
"The blast?" Olga asked, suddenly captivated by the conversation.
"The act of terrorism I mentioned at the beginning," Parker explained. "As it turns out, Zamal is coming here."
Glancing up with beaming eyes, Mentnor muttered aloud, "Bradley, that's it. That's the other end of the parallelogram! Zamal! It's not an event! It's a person!"
"Here?" Talmadge tried. "Zamal is coming to the United States?"
"To D.C.," Parker confessed.
"What for?"
Grimacing, Parker shrugged. "I couldn't say. That part we never figured out. Don't get me wrong. We did all of the digging we could, no pun intended, but we never learned why he was here. All I know is that he arrived at this hotel in the D.C. area – it's called the Heston Tower. Moments after he checked in, the entire place went up in an explosion."
"Good lord," Finkle thought aloud. "Here comes a man of peace, and he's brought down by an act of war."
"Ironic, isn't it?" Nina asked.
"The Heston?" Donovan suddenly spoke to the crowd via the teleconference link. "Frank, you've got to be kidding! That's one of the premiere hotels in Washington! It's been on the fast track for the last year. The British Prime Minister is staying there now, but he'll be gone by tomorrow evening." The man relaxed in his chair, brushing a hand across his hair. "Hell, I know most of their staff security! I've briefed and debriefed them when some of the political bigwigs come to town. Several of the Heston's staff are actually former Navy SEALs, Frank ... the kind of guys you and I used to hang out with." Confused, he shook his head. "I doubt very much that there's any way for a terrorist group to infiltrate the place."
Surrendering, the chrononaut held up his hands. "Look, all I know is all I know. And, from what I know, I can tell you that, in four days, Heston Tower goes boom, Zamal is killed in the explosion, and our nation's prayers for peace in a foreign land gets buried under the rubble."
"This is going to be easier than I thought it would be," Michelson taunted. "All we have to do is evacuate the hotel. Have Donovan call the D.C. police. Have Heston Tower closed for a few days."
"It's never that simple," Olga offered, sinking into her chair. She had been awake for more hours than she could remember, and she desperately needed rest. Every member of the staff did.
"We could do that, Channing," Mentnor said, watching invisible variables floating in the space in front of him, "but who's to say that would stop the terrorist's from achieving Zamal's death elsewhere?"
Talmadge feverishly jotted several notes on the legal pad he had placed before him. "Frank, did anyone claim responsibility?"
Parker nodded. "We believe the man responsible for the explosion operates out of Damascus. His name is Richard DeMarco. From what I recall, he's due to arrive on a TransGlobal charter flight the day before the blast."
Everyone at the table heard the rumble in Craig Donovan's throat.
"Um, Frank?"
"Yeah."
"Did you say Richard DeMarco?"
"Yes, I did."
"Tell me that you didn't."
"Donovan, what is it?"
"Frank," Donovan offered easily, "DeMarco is already here."
The chrononaut sat up in his chair. He suddenly flushed with an intense heat. Was the suit getting warmer again, or was it a bout of unexpectedly bad news?
"What did you say?"
"I said, Richard DeMarco is here."
"Where?"
"He's in Washington," Donovan explained. "That's all I know."
"That's impossible."
"Not entirely," Mentnor finally spoke up from his end of the table. Everyone in the room focused their attention on the white-haired scientist. "Frank, you have to keep in mind that we're not dealing with absolutes." He held his right hand. "In your timeline, DeMarco didn't arrive until the day before he blew up the Heston." Next, he held up his left hand. "In our timeline – while it does bare very distinct similarities to yours – he's already here." He placed his hands back on the table. "Despite how hard we examine the possibilities, it's painfully obvious to me that these two universes aren't exactly mirror images of one another."
"DeMarco is here, Frank," Donovan confirmed.
"But for what?" Olga interjected. "I mean ... let's take a look at the facts." Having gathered the attention of the conference group, she sat up proper in her chair. "To the best that we've been able to calculate, everything that Mr. Parker has told us about his timeline coincides – or I should I say 'will coincide' – with the events that are destined to occur in our timeline. If we assume that all things are equal, then mustn't we also assume that Mr. DeMarco's early arrival in our timeline serves some other purpose? Maybe he's not here to kill Mr. Zamal at all. Maybe he has another target in mind."
"If that's the case," Michelson offered, "then how do we even know where to begin?"
"That sounds reasonable," Nina finally contributed to the dialogue. "But – and please keep in mind that I'm new to what you people have quite probably been doing for some time – how could we possibly speculate what DeMarco's true purpose is?"
Shifting his attention to the video link, Talmadge immediately took control of the debate. "Craig, how did you know about DeMarco?"
"He's the prime suspect in an arson case the D.C. area police are investigating right now," Donovan answered.
"Arson?" The director drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Nothing with explosives?"
His eyes wide, the NSA agent sat back in his chair. "Not to my knowledge, Bradley." Quickly, he picked up a pen and wrote something down off screen. "I'll make a telephone call. I'm pretty tight with one of the local detectives. I help him out, he throws me a bone. So far as I've been told, DeMarco torched a compartment at one of those you-store-it facilities outside of town."
"What did he torch?" Ramsey asked. "What was in the compartment?"
"That's what has me bugged," Donovan answered, his eyes rolling. "DeMarco lit a match to a cache of weapons."
"What kind of weapons?"
"Pistols, mostly, from what the report reads," Donovan continued. "I mean ... he tried to burn stuff that wouldn't even burn."
From his chair, Ebdon Finkle rapped his knuckles on the table hard and snapped, "He's sending every one of you a message."
The director nodded at the old man. "How do you mean?"
"Well," Finkle began, slowly studying the inquisitive faces that surrounded him at the conference table, finding himself in the thick of a situation he never dreamed possible, "I think it's safe to say that I hold the record for living the longest with your team, Mr. Talmadge. Don't get me wrong. I'm not a bitter old man. I've lived a good, full life, and I'm happy to be here. I'm happy to help all of you in any way that this old coot can." Olga and Nina smiled at him, and he continued. "But, in my years, I've seen things. I've seen ugly things. I've seen the kind of things that ... well, that men just don't want to talk about after it's over." He pointed at Donovan. "This DeMarco fellow you're talking about reminds me of exactly the way I felt about Adolf Hitler during World War II. I served my country. I killed my share of men, and I have medals that don't mean a thing to me except to show how proud I was to serve the great nation. But Hitler?" Finkle shook his head in disgust. "That was one crazy sonuvabith. He talked a good game. He fooled most of the German people. The officers close to him felt otherwise, but they never did anything about it. And do you know why? It wasn't because they were afraid of losing their lives. Officers and soldiers eventually get used to the idea that they could fall in combat – or they could lose their lives – or they could lose a limb – at any given moment. Like I said, you get used to it. Hitler's officers got used to it." Shaking his head, Finkle said, "The reason those men never did anything about stopping the lunatic was because they were in the exact same situation that you folks are in right now: how do you stop a man who's willing to march in and take a country just because he can do it?" His eyes welled up with moisture, and Parker thought that the man was about to break. "Hitler wasn't evil. Evil you can understand. Evil you can accept. Evil you can fight and lock it away so that it never harms another hair on the head of a child anywhere. But crazy?" He closed his eyes. "The only way you deal with the crazy is to kill it because the crazy don't belong in a sane world."
"I think he's right," Donovan agreed.
"Why's that?" Talmadge asked.
"Because DeMarco didn't make any attempt to hide his identity from the security cameras at the storage facility," the man explained. "It's like he wanted to be filmed."
"Do you mean ... it's like he wanted to be caught?" Parker offered.
"Caught in the act is more like it," Donovan said. "What doesn't make any sense is why? Why would he want to do that?"
"He's crazy," Finkle repeated. "He wants to win the gold medal at the Screw-Loose Olympics."
Michelson interrupted with, "He's sending a message."
"To whom?" Olga asked.
"It isn't about who receives the message," Michelson theorized. "It's the fact that he's a terrorist – he's a known terrorist – and he's on our soil. He's showing us that he can get away with arson. What's next? Murder? If what Frank said is true, then we know that DeMarco is bound to try."
Tapping a gloved finger on the conference table, Parker observed, "We're going to keep him from succeeding."
Smiling at his adversary, the man agreed, "Of course, we are. That is what we do. That's why I'd offer you the argument that his message isn't intended for us. It's intended for someone else. Don't misunderstand me. DeMarco wants an audience. What we need to do is figure out who that audience is. That will bring us one step closer to staying ahead of him, and that's the only way we're going to save Mr. Zamal's life. Given the fact that DeMarco's arrived earlier – much earlier than in Frank's timeline – that's going to be critical for the success of this mission."
"That's pretty much my read on things from this end as well, Bradley," Donovan added. "If DeMarco is here, then he isn't behaving like a textbook terrorist. He's clamoring for attention, at this point. The police have his picture, so they'll be on to him. I think what I need to do is shadow their work." He glanced at the group from the other side of the camera lens. "Let me explore the DeMarco angle while you're getting the team to Washington. I'll have a full report for you when you touch down."
"Craig," Talmadge began, his voice sounding official again, "I don't need to warn you about being careful."
"Since I've been on leave from BackStep, I've been nothing but careful," the man chuckled. "Let me tell you: careful is boring."
"Regardless, don't take any unnecessary risks, Donovan," Ramsey blurted out from his seat. "You may be on leave, but you're still one of the team. I won't lose a man on my watch."
"Thanks, Nate," Donovan admired. "Once you're on my turf, you can watch my back for me."
"It'd be my honor."
"That's it, people," Talmadge announced, rising as the video link between NeverNeverLand and Washington D.C. went dead. "I've a plane standing by. I want to be airborne within two hours." He gestured at one of the women. "Dr. Welles? I'm going to ask that you join us. Your experience in treating anyone exposed to temporal contamination – should the unlikely event occur – will be invaluable."
"Yes, sir," she agreed.
"Mr. Finkle?" Talmadge smiled. "I'm afraid I have the authority to reactivate your service to the United States government, and I'm exercising that option."
With a crooked smile, the man tried, "You mean I've been drafted? Again?"
The director chuckled. "Yes, but I promise you that you won't be confined to rations just as yet. As it stands, you're the only one that can get near Frank Parker without being affected should the need arise. Olga has arranged the necessary clearance for you. You won't be a field agent so much as you'll serve as a consultant. I'll take your oath of celibacy before we've boarded the aircraft.
"Also, Isaac will be joining us until further notice. His assignment to the BackStep Program has been reactivated, and, with his connections in Washington, he'll come in handy should we be asked to brief the President or members of the Cabinet on matters of national security."
Briskly, he clapped his hands together. "That's it, people. You have work to do. Let's get to it."
Everyone rose from the conference table with the notable exception of Frank Parker. The director stepped past his staff filtering past him, and he sat back down in the chair next to the suited chrononaut.
"There's something that's bothering me, Frank."
Parker turned his head, and he realized that, under the helmet, he had begun to sweat. Again, he tapped the sensor pad, lowering the suit temperature. "What is it, Bradley?"
"Mr. Zamal," the director admitted. "You know that inner workings of Washington as well as I do." He folded his hands on the table and thought aloud. "If Zamal had been asked by the President to come to the United States, then the Secret Service would have been responsible for his safety and security. Agents would have met him at the airport. They would've been with him every step of the way. Without a doubt, they would've cleared Heston Tower of any possible threat, especially given what Craig has said about the hotel's security staff. So ... I'm going to go out on a limb here with the suggestion that Mr. Zamal was not here at the official request of our government ... was he?"
Slowly, Parker shook his head.
Talmadge smiled. "I didn't think so," he stated. "Do you have any idea of what he was doing here?"
Parker sighed. His breath momentarily fogged over the faceplate near his nose and mouth. He thought about his answer for a long moment before he finally said, "Unfortunately, that's the one thing that – as hard as we looked – we never found out."
End of Chapter 49