She stared in my direction and spoke gently in Romanian. “Natalia, you have stayed too long. For you, time in the future moves faster than in the present. At the five-hour mark, your body, wherever it is, will run out of nourishment, and you could perish. Tell no one of this day, lest you risk your future. Trust Thomas and protect him like a lioness would defend her cub. Defeat his enemies, or they will defeat you.”
She couldn’t see me. How did she know my name or even if I was there unless it was a memory? I wondered, Is that me five to seven years into the future? Is that baby mine? And who is Thomas?
My body felt weak, which made no sense because I wasn’t in my body. Intuitively, I knew my time was up. A grayish cord pulled me to the onyx square. Was this the silver cord? The moment I stepped onto the square, the tunnel instantly disappeared upwards. The cord pulled me forcefully to my inert body in the medical clinic.
“Natalia, Natalia, are you ok?” I open my eyes to Florin Oltean.
“I’m fine,” I said, sitting up and stretching as if nothing had happened. “Are we done for today?” Was it a dream? In case it wasn’t, I’m not sharing what I saw. The parapsychologist stopped crying and hugged me. I felt myself stifef n; I don’t like being hugged, let alone by someone with whom I don’t have an emotional connection. Thank God, she released me after an excruciatingly long few seconds. “Natalia, you were unconscious for almost five hours. Your heart rate fell below thirty, and your blood oxygen is dangerously low.” The beautiful woman in the bed warned me of this. Or did I warn me? The parapsychologist again checked my indicators, which were again normal.
Oltean shook his head in amazement. “What did you see?
I knew the SRI doesn’t want someone who can predict cards. They want a covert agent who can predict the future on the killing field. That being the case, I’m not going to take psychedelic drugs to help them. The experiment is over.
Filled with joy and more than a tinge of sadness, I answered Oltean, “I’m sorry, I became lost in a state of nothingness.”
Returning to work in Bucharest, I could think of nothing else. Who was the woman? Will Chanel be my daughter? Who is Thomas? My mind went haywire, and I started to doubt myself. After all, an assassin can’t have a family.
My phone rang a few weeks later, and I was “invited” back to the school to entertain a VIP American visitor, General Crew Thomas. I didn’t have to be told about this man; Crew Thomas is a legendary American spy. When I heard his name, I jumped at the chance.
Only then did it strike me, and on a magnitude approaching that of an earthquake: Could this be the “Thomas” mentioned in my OBE by the beautiful woman in the hospital bed?
A Summer Dusk
The school’s campus is old-fashioned “Soviet.” There are roughly twenty private cottages, with ample spacing, within a wooded area surrounded by a tall spiked fence; a comfortable dining facility, classrooms, and labs sprawl across a ten-acre medical complex. No outsiders welcome – or allowed. Perhaps because of my test scores, I have a cottage close enough to the sea to hear waves lapping. And, I’m given special privileges to move around. The parcel of fenced-in land which contains the school has defined boundaries, and guests need approval to leave. On-property mingling is discouraged but allowed, as some classes require multiple students, and the dining hall is open 24/7. There is little to do, no televisions in the rooms, and no cell towers close to the property.
My orders this week are to gain the trust of the American general, who I suspect may one day father my daughter. At least predicted so by the beautiful woman in my dream, who might have been me in a hospital bed five years from now. That’s a lot for a simple girl to digest. Good thing I’m not a simple girl.
Sun Down
As I sit on my porch, the sun disappears below the treetops. Stars spring forth as the few lights on the ground aren’t strong enough to dim them. I find it peaceful. No one in Bucharest can reach me. I feel a lightness of being and the joy of doing something for my country and maybe something for me. It’s time to get ready for my guest.
After I first met Thomas this morning, I invited him to my cottage for a drink or a walk after dinner. Staff members whispered when they learned that an American was on-premises. Wasn’t it only a couple of decades ago that we were trying to kill Americans? Now, one right here in the compound? That man is about to arrive at my cottage. I glance at my attire in the mirror. Is it too little? A knock at the door. My head snaps. Straightening my shoulders, I invite him in. Thomas finds me in a black slip, standing next to my bedroom door. Might as well capture his attention. As he enters, I snap his photo with my cell phone, then pull on a thin, long, black dress and zip it up the front. “Whoa there, Princess. I thought cell phones and photos were a no-go on your campus.” He doesn’t even mention the slip.
“You’re right, General. We don’t want to aid facial recognition software, do we.” I put away my phone without deleting the photo. No cell towers within miles of the school, and satellite coverage is sketchy. He knows I can’t send it. He’ll probably see how the night goes.
It’s Never Too Soon
This woman is something else. The outfit, the curves, and the way she stands there unabashed take my breath away. I ask myself: Have I ever met an American girl who introduced herself as smoothly as she did? The answer is no, of course, which leads me to wonder what else she may be capable of pulling off. Of more importance, she is the one – the “10” from five years ago in the Epoque Hotel. I can’t get that out of my head.
I let my eyes roam Thomas. Tall, lean, dark hair mixed with gray, reasonably attractive, but much older. He’s got khakis, no belt, a golf shirt, no socks, and Prada walkers. So American. I notice his black onyx ring with a diamond in the middle. Black onyx! Can it be? It’s him.
My intuition is that Thomas is a loner. Being a loner is a necessary condition to excel and survive in our line of work. When we spoke, he seemed confident but shy. He’s pleasantly unlike the unsophisticated men I’ve dealt with in Romania, Eastern Europe, or even Moscow.
Sitting on my couch, he leans in and says, “I’m not clever enough or young enough to engineer a pick-up line for someone half my age. You’re more than a translator. How about telling me why you’re here, Natalia.”
I sit, “Okay, if you are willing to reciprocate and tell me why you’re here. I’m an ofifcer, and you are a general. That deal favors me.” The game is on.
He chuckles. “With your beauty and negotiating skills, you might become a general. We have a deal. But how will you know if I’m telling you the truth?”
“Easy. Tell a lie to me, and that old body of yours will give you away.”
He laughs, “Keep up with the humor, and I’ll tell you just about anything.”
“Liar.”
“What exactly do you do for the SRI?”
“Nothing like getting to the meat of things quickly, General.” Being semi-serious, I say, “Is that how you are with women?”
“That’s how I am with everyone. But the answer to your question is yes.”
“Fair enough. My day job at the SRI is cleaning up problems. Two months ago, I was here undergoing the quantum physics aptitude tests. They told me I’m a lucid dreamer with paranormal potential. I had to tell the dummies that lucid dreaming is proven science and backed by the laws of physics. All that paranormal stuff is a waste of time.”
“There are many lucid dreamers.”
“Yes, but not with the rest of the package.” I am being sincere.
“Natalia, tell me about