TP-001 - The Time Passenger

PROLOGUE

April, 2002

The Florida sun beat down on the luxurious estate of Congressman Phillip Edgar Trenton, casting a warm glow over the informal lunch gathering in progress. As guests indulged in the final course of dessert, Peggy Lee, the Congressman’s alluring wife, played the perfect hostess, her charm and poise a contributing factor to her husband’s political success.

At 39, Trenton cut a striking figure, his good looks and prestigious banking family background bolstering his rising star in the political arena. A law graduate from Villanova University, he had wasted no time launching his career, securing a seat in Congress at the young age of 25. Utilizing his father’s connections, Trenton quickly made a name for himself, introducing legislation that had earned the support of influential party members. Marriage to Peggy Lee, a wealthy Texas oil heiress and college sweetheart, had come just a year into his congressional tenure.

The union had produced two daughters, now aged 8 and 6, who were doted on by a team of attentive nannies.

Trenton had his sights set on the Senate and, with the backing of prominent figures, had been using these informal weekend gatherings, orchestrated by his wife, to further his climb to the upper echelons of power.

“Phil,” an old Wall Street wolf and friend of Trenton’s father, said after finishing a piece of chocolate cake, “Peggy Lee mentioned your personal initiative to assist the county’s orphans. Will you push for any political action on the matter once you’ve secured a seat in the Senate?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Trenton replied, setting his cup of coffee on the plate before him,

“You see, personal commitment to this kind of initiative is worth more than just words. I like the idea of spending some time with those unfortunate young people to try to make them feel less forgotten in a world where everything is so fleeting. I don’t do much, just monetary donations. These facilities are constantly in need of funds to give the children who live there a chance. I occasionally visit some of them and spend time with the kids, talking to them and, basically, explaining to them that they are not outcasts. Tomorrow, I will be visiting the Garden of Lord orphanage in Port Saint Lucie. The pastor who runs it is very old and needs help to find a suitable replacement.”

Peggy Lee interjected, “It’s a blessing for those poor souls to have someone like Phil looking out for them. Sometimes I look at our daughters and think about how lucky they are to have parents as caring as we are. And when they grow up, I’m sure they will appreciate even more, if ever it is needed, the father that fate has given them.”

The guests indeed agreed with those words.

Reverend Wright was sixty-nine years old, and his health was failing. Having been widowed fifteen years earlier, he had grown bitter and hardened. Cancer had taken his wife, with whom he'd been unfortunate enough never to have children, and the orphanage they'd founded with such enthusiasm had now become nothing but a burden. Money was always insufficient, and the newer generations of residents were less docile than those they'd started with. Volunteers had dwindled partly because of this, and he'd considered giving up more than once. Let those little bloodsuckers fend for themselves, he often thought—it certainly wasn't his fault they'd been born.

Then one day, that congressman had appeared with a substantial donation, and he'd done the math. Half the money went to the institution, and with the other half, he'd decided to live out his remaining time in comfort. A couple of evenings a week, he'd dress up and drive the twenty miles to the town where Kiki, a Dominican prostitute who'd restored some of his male pride, lived. True, the girl demanded payment and an occasional gold trinket, but he didn't mind much since the congressman had begun making regular donations.

The reverend approached the courtyard where a multitude of noisy children were playing. He leaned against one of the posts supporting the portico and sharpened his gaze.

He stopped a boy passing by and said, “Go get the Jew and tell him to come here immediately.”

The boy, his face smeared with dirt, nodded and ran toward the center of the courtyard where a group of his peers was playing ball.

“Jude,” the boy said, approaching another with olive skin and deep black eyes, “the old man wants you. Said to go to him right away.”

The boy looked toward the portico and began walking slowly.

Another sturdy boy with very light eyes and black curls shouted after him with a sarcastic laugh: “Go on, go on, or you'll be late for your cuddles!”

Jude raised his middle finger without turning around—his eyes were already filling with tears anyway.

July, 2009

The two demons in children's forms had finally settled down. Now they lay haphazardly asleep within the cocooning spirals of their seatbelts. Cleon Boutsirakis, seated behind the wheel of his SUV, sighed in relief and slightly increased the volume of the lounge music softly filling the cabin. He, his wife, and the two little pests they called children were returning to Virginia after a week of camping in Maine. The plan was to use the remaining vacation days for some stops along the way before heading back to Washington. After ten years of marriage and the arrival of those two uncivilized barbarians, he and his wife loved each other as much as the first day. Early in their relationship, Cleon—after graduating in cybernetic engineering—had been hired as a CIA analyst while she began translating books for a small publisher. Now, eleven years later, he'd become one of the trusted analysts for the Director of the NCS, the Agency's clandestine operations division. His wife still worked as a translator, but for a major publisher. Increased responsibilities for both had made these family vacations rarer, so they'd cherished this week intensely. And from the two little terrors too, as was easily predictable.

The woman touched her husband’s hand and smiled at him, amusedly.

“The two little beasts have finally crashed!”

Cleon gulped some water from the bottle in the car's cup holder and then glanced at his wife.

“Haven't you ever wondered what causes filicide?”

She suppressed a laugh.

“Stop it, you silly! What kind of parent are you?”

“I'm being serious,” he continued with an amused expression, “Are we absolutely, positively certain these two behind us are ours? I mean, I work for the CIA. Maybe they're androids someone swapped for the two delightful angels who now work for a foreign power.”

This time, his wife brought a hand to her mouth, her face contorted in a horrified-amused grimace.

“You're an unnatural father, not even worthy of the name!” Then, leaning back in her seat, she added, “Still, to answer your questions, I believe nervous exhaustion caused by extreme child behavior might reasonably trigger filicidal urges. As for them being androids, I highly doubt it, considering the surgeons' bills for putting them back together whenever they get hurt.”

Then she turned toward the twins, immersed in who-knows-what battles and dinosaur dreams, and smiled softly.

“But what would life be without them?” she said.

Cleon smiled and nodded.

It was the last Sunday of the month, and coastal roads buzzed with increased summer traffic.

They decided to stop for a bite in Portsmouth and chose a bayside pub. The place was pleasant, decked out in nautical decor. Its walls were plastered with fishing nets covered with countless trophies and furnishings from shipwrecks and decommissioning. An elderly waitress greeted them warmly and led them to a table. Few patrons lingered—mostly seafaring folk. The twins, thankfully in a post-catatonic state, merely mumbled incoherently in their parents' arms.

They ordered chicken nuggets with fries for the kids—certain the aroma would rouse them—and two burgers with salad for themselves.

Cleon was due back at work on Tuesday, and his wife would resume her own duties after this pleasant break.

As expected, when food arrived, the twins snapped fully awake, trading playful jabs.

After a collective bathroom trip, she and the children headed to the car while Cleon went to pay. The cashier—an older, attractive but heavily made-up woman—handed him the bill.

Suddenly, the man polishing one of the trophies left on the counter exclaimed, “Mary, this piece of junk's crumbling! Leaves more dust every morning—why don't we toss it?”

The cashier glanced at the object and shrugged.

“Wayne pulled that from the shark's belly. Might hurt his feelings if it disappears.”

“But it gets grime everywhere! Then I've gotta clean it!” the man grumbled.

“You don't even polish it!” she shot back.

Amused, Cleon observed the object half-hidden by the man's frame—then froze, heart hammering. It was a cylinder, seemingly chromed, about three feet long. He recovered instantly, mind racing.

Flashing the cashier a smile, he approached it, saying without hesitation, “If you don't want it, I'll take it. I'm a contemporary sculptor and would love to study its form.”

The cashier's eyes gleamed.

“Well, sweetheart, if you're taking it, Wayne'll need some compensation—a token of appreciation, say.”

Cleon opened his wallet, feigning calm he didn't feel. He peered inside with a detached air and pulled out some bills, “I've got three hundred dollars in cash. That should cover it, right?”

The cashier made the bills disappear and smiled at him.

“We'll make it work,” she decreed, then told the man, “Give the gentleman that thing, Nick. At least then you'll stop complaining.” Turning back to Cleon, “Though I reckon you'll need to study it quick, honey. That thing's turning to fine dust. It was at least seven or eight inches longer when Captain Wayne gave it to us last April.”

They wrapped it in an old newspaper, and Cleon strode briskly outside. Reaching the car, he opened the trunk and, with great care, placed the wrapped object inside. The two little savages were at each other's throats in the backseat while his wife distributed loud slaps in a vain attempt to quell the brawl. Cleon signaled her with a finger and, in a no-nonsense tone, asked her to get out of the car with the children and take them to the service station across the way. She understood this wasn't negotiable, grabbed the two little combatants, and hurried toward the gas station plaza. Cleon stepped a few paces from the car and entered a code on his cellphone.

A moment later, a woman's voice answered, “Voice identifier, please.”

Cleon recited a code. The voice responded a few moments later.

“Your request is level one, sir. You know what this entails?”

Cleon nodded while answering, slightly irritated.

“Affirmative. Agency protocol: red.”

The voice remained neutral.

“Please provide the protocol number.”

“1.79 QGA.”

“Stay on the line.”

There was static on the line before a male voice said, “You're now on an untraceable line. What's your exact location?”

“Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I'm in the parking lot of a restaurant called Shirley’s Den.”

After a pause, the man said, “Okay, we've located you. Recovery team arrives in 42 minutes. Your requested protocol requires NBC intervention. Do you have reason to suspect active contamination?”

“Currently, it is impossible to determine precisely. The object has been publicly displayed without protection for at least four months, apparently showing no signs of activity. My request stems from its decomposition into talc-like powder. Given the uncertainty, I called for this protocol.” Cleon hesitated briefly before adding, “I'm here with my wife and children.”

The voice disappeared momentarily before returning.

“Stand by. The Director wants to speak with you.”

Seconds passed before a new, decisive voice came through.

“What's happening, Cleon?” Asked Thomas Donohue, Director of the National Clandestine Service, the CIA's clandestine operations division. Cleon headed his elite team of analyst-researchers.

“Sir, this concerns the very object from our February 2009 recovery operation. I'm certain of it.” Cleon continued urgently, “I analyzed that data for three months after the protocol was initiated. At first glance, the object has already lost about eight inches since being mounted, last April, among the restaurant's decorations, where I stopped by chance with my family. It's disintegrating into fine sand, but I can't guarantee it isn't emitting radioactive waves, sir. Hence, my NBC team request.”

Donohue spoke calmly yet firmly, a sign of his rapid thinking.

“Is the object still inside the restaurant? Can you isolate it?”

“Already in my possession, sir. Purchased it for three hundred dollars. The source seemed to have no idea what it was. The source also told me it was given to them by someone named Captain Wayne, who supposedly found it inside a shark's belly. The object is currently in my car's trunk, wrapped in newspaper. I've sent my family to wait at the fuel station across the street, sir.”

“Well done, Cleon!” Donohue exclaimed, pleased. “The recovery team will arrive shortly. Squad leader Welch will escort you and your family to the airport. From there, one of our flights will bring you back here. Upon arrival, one car will take your wife and children home while another will bring you directly to the office with the object. Is everything clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Cleon promptly replied.

“If this is truly what was documented in the file—and since I'm in good spirits—I’ll grant you a two-dollar raise,” joked the NCS Director.

“An exceptionally enticing prospect, sir,” the analyst responded with a smile.

“They'll be there shortly. Stay safe until then.” Donohue concluded.

Exactly forty minutes later, three large dark-blue SUVs pulled into the parking lot where Cleon waited. The analyst stepped forward to shake hands with the first of the suited men approaching him.

“I’m Welch, Mr. Boutsirakis. That’s the place?” asked the red-haired giant cordially, shaking his hand and nodding toward Shirley’s Den.

Cleon nodded and added, “The cashier who sold me the object is named Mary, and the man cleaning it is Nick. The man who brought it in is called Wayne, probably a fishing boat captain, but he's not here. Apparently, the object was found inside a shark's belly. I'm certain none of the three are aware of the object's nature, which is currently wrapped in my car's trunk over there. Here are the keys. My family is waiting at that service station.”

Welch listened intently, handed the keys to one of the men from the vehicles, then issued silent hand signals.

Moments later, two agents went to retrieve Sue and the children while four others—equipped with masks and gloves—carefully sealed the cylinder and placed it inside a black case stamped with radioactive hazard symbols.

Welch returned to Cleon: “Mr. Boutsirakis, thank you for the report. Now you and your family board that vehicle there,” he indicated one of the three SUVs, “I'll join you shortly.”

Cleon headed toward the designated vehicle with Sue and the boys while Welch paused to examine the object, now sealed in a transparent pouch within the foam-lined transport case.

One of the handlers reported, “Radiation emissions lower than a cellphone. No detectable bacteriological contaminants.”

Welch nodded and entered a code on his phone. Without waiting for a response, he stated, “Cylinder, three feet by five and a half inches in diameter. Appears to be chromed stainless steel. Currently non-contaminating. Leaving the interrogation team behind and proceeding to rally point.”

He ended the transmission and moved to issue further orders.

Ten minutes later, he boarded the SUV where the Boutsirakis family waited with three other agents, and they departed for Portsmouth International Airport.

PART ONE

THE SENTENCE

ONE

January 2015

Professor Waltman chewed his salad rapidly to converse with his colleague, Professor Bernstein.

“In thirty years of my career, I've never encountered a student this brilliant, Sarah—and I know you agree.”

His colleague, Sarah Bernstein, chair of History of Eastern Religions, nodded.

“He'll undoubtedly graduate cum laude at the end of next year, and I'd like to convince him to pursue an academic career. We need someone like him.” Waltman said.

“I know Henry, but don’t think he’ll accept. I've broached the subject twice, and he made it clear he has other aspirations. He wants to write.”

Waltman wiped his mouth with a napkin and waved a hand.

“He told me the same, but how will he support himself before publishing? A degree in ancient languages and religions isn't a ticket to success if you rule out academia.”

Bernstein shrugged.

“As you say, he's brilliant—I'm sure he already has plans he's not sharing. You've made the offer; if he accepts, he'll let you know promptly.”

Waltman studied her briefly before diving back into his salad, mumbling: “You're right, but it's a shame. A real shame.”

The number of female students dreaming of a romance with Jude formed a considerable group. He was dark-haired, tall, with deep brown eyes and a calm yet warm smile that always lifted moods. He worked as head waiter at a busy downtown restaurant, earning enough to cover living expenses, while his scholarships he consistently earned with top marks paid tuition. Not that he had extravagant tastes: he didn't drink or smoke, and unlike peers who wrecked themselves at raves or clubs, he preferred training at the gym of William ‘Hammer’ Cole, former pro boxing star.

A blonde Californian with striking green eyes from his paleoanthropology course intercepted Jude after class as he prepared for work. Books under her arm, she approached smiling.

“Jude, how about a picnic this Saturday?”

The young man raised an eyebrow, returning her smile.

“I'd love to, but this weekend I'm going to Miami. Visiting friends from the orphanage who organized a reunion dinner.”

Hanna pretended to pout.

“I'd have made you tons of treats.”

Jude slung an arm around her shoulders as they walked toward the campus exit.

“I don't doubt it. But this is my first chance since starting college to see the kids I grew up with. I can't miss it.”

They reached the bus stop as passengers boarded. He kissed her forehead before stepping on.

“Then I'm booking you next weekend,” the girl said adoringly.

“Don't worry—we'll meet again soon!” He smiled.

As the bus pulled away, his expression shifted. He knew he likely wouldn't see her ever again.