Chapter Two
Manchester-Boston Regional Airport, Manchester, New Hampshire
One Week Later
A cool spring wind blew across the tarmac, kicking up dirt and
sand. Agent Patrick Brady lowered his head and closed his eyes. When it
died down, he blinked several times and brushed off his suit jacket. On
the last swipe, he glanced at his watch. 10:23. Shit.
Brady folded his arms across his chest. He had picked up several
agents at the airport in the past and was used to them being late, but
those involved commercial flights. The agent arriving from Washington
was arriving on a privately chartered flight, which seemed unusual. The
urgency of the situation also seemed strange. Brady had received a phone
call from the special agent in charge of the Boston Field Office just
before seven that morning ordering him to pick up a Suburban and meet a
special agent at the airport at ten. Normally he would not mind, except
he was on vacation this week. If Brady thought he had a tough time
unsuccessfully attempting to talk the SAC out of making him come to
work, informing his wife Stephanie they had to cancel their plans for
the day proved more difficult. To help soften the blow, he promised
Stephanie he would take her to dinner at Hanover Street Chophouse when
he got back. At this rate, he would be reneging on that promise as well.
The noise of a jet approaching from the southeast caught Brady’s
attention. Using his hand to block the sun, he scanned the skies. A
Gulfstream approached from five thousand feet and descending rapidly. He
watched it draw closer, relieved to spot the FBI logo on the engine
nacelles mounted below the horizontal stabilizer. The jet touched down
with a screech of rubber and slowed. A few minutes later, the Gulfstream
pulled up parallel with the Suburban and stopped. Once the twin jets
shut down, the entry door lowered.
A man centered himself in the open hatch. The black suit and tie,
and the mannerisms, gave him away as a special agent. Brady had seen it
dozens of times since joining the Bureau, the demeanor of someone with
years of experience who had witnessed things most civilians would never
see and had been hardened by it. Brady took him for a career agent, with
at least fifteen years under his belt judging by the graying hair and
lines around his eyes and lips. The pissed-off expression on his face
told Brady this guy wanted to be here even less than he did.
Spotting Brady, he rushed down the steps and approached the Suburban. “Are you the guy who’s supposed to be meeting me?”
“I am.” Brady stepped away from the vehicle and offered his hand. “I’m Agent Patrick Brady.”
“I’m Special Agent Gary Carbone.” He gave Brady’s hand a firm pump. “Are you ready?”
“Don’t you have any luggage?”
“I don’t plan on being here long. I want to interview this guy and
get back to Washington as soon as possible.” Carbone paused halfway into
the Suburban. “How far away does he live?”
“An hour, maybe a little more.”
“Then let’s haul ass.” When Brady did not move, Carbone tapped his hand on the roof. “Come on.”
Brady slipped into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and
pulled away. He waited until they reached Interstate 293N and had merged
into the flow of traffic before speaking.
“So, do you intend to fill me in on what’s going on?”
“You’ve been dragged into some major bullshit, kid.”
“What kind of bullshit?”
Carbone flashed him an aggravated glare. “Haven’t you been watching the news the past week?”
“You mean the discovery of the Nazi emblem on that four-thousand-year-old Egyptian structure?”
“That’s the one. Seems the guy I’m here to interview talked about
it several decades ago, only then nobody listened to him.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a fuckin’ nutjob,” Carbone sneered. “He makes some
stupid ass claim that, by a freak chance, happens to pan out, and now
the Director thinks this guy’s a fucking psychic. And for some reason
I’m the SA that has to interrogate him.”
“I think you mean interview.”
“Whatever. They should just let this guy talk to the media. Sending me down here is a waste of time and resources.”
Brady gunned the engine and passed a slow-moving tractor trailer plodding along in the left lane. “Why am I here?”
“To take notes and write the report.”
“You’re kidding?” Brady kept his eyes on the highway. “I got called
in from my vacation to be your chauffeur and secretary?”
“Sorry, kid. Shit flows downhill, and on this one you’re at the bottom of the slope.”
Brady said nothing for the rest of the trip, internally fuming that
a fellow special agent would treat him this way. Rather than wallow in
his anger, he concentrated on driving. The highway took them only as far
as Lake Sunapee, the remainder of the trip being via back roads and a
dozen small towns. They finally reached the lake at the town of Newbury.
When the GPS led them off the road onto an unpaved driveway that went
on for half a mile, Brady thought the system had erred. He was about to
back down to the street when the dirt and gravel merged into asphalt
and, after another one hundred feet, opened onto the main property. A
colonial-style eight-room house stood directly in front of them. To the
left was a two-car garage connected to the main residence. Lake Sunapee
could be seen two hundred feet behind the property. The lawn out front
was carefully maintained, the grass a lush green. Blooming flower beds
lined the walkway from the driveway to the front door.
Carbone huffed. “The nutjob has done pretty good for himself.”
Brady parked the car in front of the garage. Both men climbed out
and proceeded along the walkway. As they neared the front porch, the
door opened. A British bulldog waddled out and stopped by the double
steps, its tail wagging furiously. An older gentleman emerged dressed in
jeans, a white cotton shirt, and loafers. He stood at six feet, erect
and without a slouch, with a full head of hair whitened by age. The
man’s eyes were azure, yet their attractiveness belied the knowledge
that lay underneath. Brady could tell that this man was highly
intelligent and had witnessed things most men could not even imagine.
The agent figured him to be in his late seventies, but with the mental
and physical acuity of a man two decades younger.
As the two approached, the bulldog barked in excitement.
“Winnie, be good.” The man crouched and scratched the bulldog behind the ears. “You know you don’t bark at guests.”
Carbone ignored the dog. “Are you Matthew Evans?”
“I am.”
Carbone reached into his inner jacket pocket, withdrew a wallet,
and flipped it open with his right hand. Brady removed his and opened it
with both hands. “I’m Special Agent Gary Carbone with the FBI. This is
Agent Patrick Brady. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
“Of course. Come in.” Evans waved for them to follow as he stepped through the front door. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Carbone seemed confused. “You knew we were coming?”
“Not you in particular. But I figured someone would show up.”
“Why did you assume that?”
“I’ve been watching the news all week.” Evans smiled at Carbone,
not so much out of pleasantry but as one who knows he has the upper
hand. “When I heard they found the Reichsadler in Egypt, I knew it’d
only be a matter of time before the Bureau sent someone to talk to me.
I’m surprised it took so long.”
“You have a unique perspective on this situation.”
“More so than you realize.” When both agents and Winnie had entered
the house, Evans closed the door. He led the way to the living room.
“So, you know why we’re here?” Carbone asked.
“Of course. You have a lot of questions you want to ask me. And I’m
happy to answer them.” Evans gestured to the couch. “Please, have a
seat.”
“Thanks.” Carbone sat on the sofa in front of a coffee table.
Evans headed for the kitchen, with Winnie rushing along behind him. “I’ll get us some iced tea and snacks.”
“No need for that.” Carbone did not attempt to conceal his irritation. “This won’t take long.”
Evans chuckled. “Trust me, it will. I’ll be back in a few.”
After Evans disappeared into the kitchen, Carbone leaned back against the cushions. “Shit. We’ll be here for hours.”
Brady ignored the special agent. He placed his notebook down on the
coffee table and strolled around the room, taking in the details.
Evan’s living room also served as his study. Built-in mahogany
bookshelves lined the interior wall. Brady scanned the titles. Most of
the books pertained to Egyptian history, World War II, American politics
from the 1940s to the present, the Cold War, astronomy, physics, UFOs,
and the science of time travel. An old Army Air Force officer’s cap
rested in a display case on one shelf, flanked to the left by another
display case with a pair of 1940s-era gold leaves and a military
intelligence badge, and to the right by a black-and-white 8x10
photograph. Brady studied the image. Evans crouched in the center of the
photograph with a lieutenant and a U.S. Army staff sergeant to his
right and left; a line of seven soldiers stood behind the others, one of
them an African-American corporal.
Crossing the room to the fireplace, he checked out the photos on
the mantelpiece. All of them were of Evans and a beautiful woman with
shoulder-length red hair, presumably his wife, in front of various
landmarks. Brady recognized the Pyramids and the Brandenburg Gate
amongst the backgrounds and could tell by the varying textures and
clarity of the photos that they scanned from the mid-twentieth century
to the present. Another thing he noticed was that the couple aged
gracefully from photograph to photograph, appearing only slightly older
from one image to the next.
“What are you doing?” asked Carbone.
“Getting a feel for what the subject is like.”
“Check his desk drawer. If you find a tinfoil hat, you’ll know everything you need to.”
Brady strolled over to the sofa and sat down as Evans entered
holding a tray with a pitcher of iced tea, three glasses, and a plate
with sliced cheese and cold cuts. He placed the tray onto the coffee
table and sat down. Winnie jumped onto the sofa beside him.
“So, how can I help the FBI?”
Brady picked up the notebook and opened it to the first page as
Carbone leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. “We want to
know how you predicted an archaeological dig would unearth a Nazi
symbol on a structure forty-five hundred years old?”
“Do you want the long or short version?”
“The short version should be sufficient.”
“That’s easy.” Winnie barked, so Evans removed a slice of pepperoni
from the plate and fed it to his dog. “The Nazis changed the original
timeline so they could win World War II, and I went back in time to
correct it.”
