Craig T. Bouchard
Natalia’s Game

© Craig T. Bouchard, 2023

© “U Nikitskikh Vorot” Publishing House, 2023

I venture
to the plane
reveal my heart
find hope
drain despair

Search
for
simple
content
happiness

Close to
heaven
I trace
your bare
arms

Bury my face in
your hair, your hips
your soul
taste
you

Inner
stars, clouds
blue
I glimpse
a life full of you

And imagine

Natalia, Chanel, Nora, Cambelle, Nana, and Alina, the destiny of this world and its parallel universes are

in your hands

Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

One Night in Bucharest

2014

I don’t like to dress up at this stage of life. Hardly ever do. But tonight, I’ve got on a dark blue pin-stripe suit, a white shirt with a red tie, and a black onyx ring. My destination is the Epoque, a six-story boutique hotel in Bucharest. It’s just a few years old, not rundown like some of the older hotels in town. So whenever I come to Bucharest, I stay here. The entrance to the hotel is a nicely paved circle designed for cars and without a sidewalk for pedestrians. Security is tight, and nobody walks in.

I walk around the circle and into the hotel. The guests tend to be wealthy Romanians or foreign expatriates. It’s fancy, a place to see and be seen. Plenty of beautiful young Romanian women hang out at the bar, hoping to meet their escape to the western world. Social media seems to create high expectations in this part of the world.

I’m staying only one night: no luggage, no briefcase, no gun. My only meeting is tomorrow at 9:00 AM, which will last precisely twenty minutes. That’s a generous amount of time, considering I’m meeting the President of Romania. That’s why I’m wearing a suit. After that meeting, I’ll fly home – in a manner of speaking.

The hotel manager shows me to a private suite on the 3rd floor. It’s a lovely couple of rooms with a king-size bed. A colorful piece of modern art hangs above the headboard, revealing the best parts of a naked woman in front of a mirror. I don’t like contemporary art, but I like this painting. I’m comfortable here.

On the balcony, there is a small table with two chairs. I sit down and see a quiet, tree-lined park a few blocks away as – a potential escape route.

Dusk is my favorite. The setting sun is a blur, and the sounds of the city are like music – Bucharest at its finest.

My thoughts are of an old friend, the brand new President of Romania. He’s a cuddly teddy bear of a man – tall, handsome, fun, smart, with great instincts. We were college kids when we met at a bar in Berlin late in the 1980s before the wall fell. Our common denominator was quantum physics, and we sat at that bar debating my ideas about astral projection and teleporting. It got hot; he thought I was defying the sacred laws of energy and physics. That was so not true. I remember the moment that he got it. His eyes lit up; he realized I was holding the winning hand, conceding defeat; he picked up the tab. I’d won, and that was before quantum physics was cool.

We became close friends and spent many late nights drinking German beer, exploring topics like the possibility of parallel universes. Eventually, life took us in difef rent directions. I became a spy, and he became a politician. Some say that we are lucky to have five friends we can genuinely trust in our entire life. He is one of those.

Tomorrow, after I submit to a body search, we will be allowed to hug each other, and I’ll congratulate him on running an entire country. Who would have thought? More importantly, I’ll ask him about his health and beautiful wife. He won’t ask me the same because he knows I lost someone I loved. Someone he knew well.

Instead, he’ll ask me how I arrived, knowing there is no record of me entering his country. I’ll say, “I walked.” Then, with an eyebrow up, he will smile, shake his head and ask me again to teach him teleporting techniques. I’ll remind him that he owes me the favor, and we will hug again. My twenty minutes will be up, and the trip will have been worth it.

I take off my coat and the damn tie and head downstairs to have a beer and check out the in-crowd. The room is full of beautiful people oozing energy. I plunk myself out of the action at the end of the bar. I don’t do small talk unless I need information. It’s a discipline that helps keep me alive.

A few minutes later, I realize there should be an exception to my rule.

In struts, a tall brunette wearing a black jacket, her spectacular body brimming and highlighted by a white silk blouse sans bra, and long legs are not well hidden underneath a black mini-skirt. Designer heels and a hint of red lipstick top it off. She’s a 10. The girl floats in on a cloud of sex appeal, everyone eyeing her. I want to say something, but I’m too shy, even when she sits beside me. But, of course, she doesn’t notice me. I’m at least a couple of decades older.

Some Russian guy in a designer suit orders her a drink; he boldly walks up and starts a conversation. Yuck. Her back is to me, but I can see his eyes; they are ravenous.

He asks her what she does, and she replies in perfect Russian, “I’m a physicist.” Darn! The Russian guy ofef rs her his room key. She politely gives it back to him and hands him her key. What? It can’t be that easy. Something is off. The way-too-beautiful girl walks out of the bar like a supermodel going back up the runway, and I say to myself: Now, she was worth watching. It’s almost 10:00 pm. I’m jet-lagged, so I finish my Timisoreana, pay the tab, and head back to the room. Opportunity lost.

Minutes turn into an hour, and I can’t sleep thinking about the girl and the Russian. In my underwear, I go out on the balcony and open the bottle of red the concierge left on my dresser. I like being alone, under the stars, thinking, and listening to what’s out there. In the dark distance, I see a maze of headlights and vaguely make out people doing whatever they want to do in the park. Then a tiny red dot catches my eye. I tilt my head and follow the line. I’m staring at a laser beam above me emanating from a rifle 300 meters away. I hope I’m not the target! That’s not very far.

It doesn’t take long. The bullet disturbs air density as it flies in my direction, allowing me to see it coming. There isn’t any wind, so there is not much drift to its path. When a bullet travels fast, its arc isn’t dramatic, and the drop is predictable. The shell disappears above my balcony’s ceiling. I hear a sound like a knife plunging into a watermelon just before it’s carved.

As it turns out, the shooter knew what he was doing, and I wasn’t the target. Someone one floor above me bought it. So I quickly go back into my room, shut the door, close the curtains, turn off the lights, and finish the bottle of Babeasca Neagra.

Amazingly, nothing happens. Nothing at all. Bucharest is like our old wild west. Anything goes.

A couple of hours later, adrenaline still coursing through my system, I take a sleeping pill. 9:00 am is coming quickly, and I need to sleep. So how do I describe the most unusual event that happens next?

Well, I have a dream.

Why is that unusual, you might ask? Because I rarely dream. My nights are peaceful and boring. But God compensates; I can join someone else’s dream if invited, and I can do that at a very high level of proficiency.

In this dream, I see the same beautiful girl in the bar, and she notices me. Wearing a brilliant smile and nothing else, she extends her right hand with long fingernails painted black, and I take it. She looks and feels good, and the dream ends right there. That’s it. For me, a remarkable event. I’m now wondering if she was inviting me into her dream. Another opportunity lost.

At 8:40 am, I hear a knock. I open the door to find three Romanian secret service agents who will escort me to the President’s ofifce. We take the elevator three flights down and walk out into pandemonium in the lobby. Police are everywhere, and the hotel entrance is cordoned off as a crime scene. I hand in my key and walk out of the hotel with my new best friends.

The School

Five Years Later

A two-story brick wall stretches fifty yards to my right and left. The wall is interrupted in the middle by a forbidding, rusted iron door wide enough to accept the occasional vehicle. This morning the door is shut. I look at the brick wall. I can make out one word in the stone above the door. I’m not fluent in Romanian, but I know the word “school.” This place can’t be a school; it’s a fortress.

A guard house looms about forty feet above. I look up into an ominous sky serving as background to the tower and shout, “Hey, anybody up there?”

My unexpected greeting creates a commotion resulting in heads popping out of the guard house and three rifles pointed haphazardly in my direction. I doubt these knuckleheads could hit me. One of the guards in the tower speaks broken English.

I rearrange his jumble of words and incorrect idioms to arrive at what I think he is saying: “This is a military installation, and you are in a restricted space. Place your hands in the air and state your name and purpose.” He sounds angry. Junior guys in Romania don’t like taking career risks.

I hold up a white envelope with my name engraved in gold letters. Hoping he understands more English than he can speak, I say, “My name is General Crew Thomas. I am an American invited by SRI General Director Helsing for a meeting tomorrow. My arrival date is today, and here I am.” They immediately pick up the phone, and the gate opens a few loud minutes later. I feel confident that in the decades-long history of the “school,” this is the first time an American has walked through this gate.

An apologetic General Helsing and a few of his staff greet me. One of them, a young woman, speaks nearly perfect English. “Good morning, General Thomas. Welcome to the school. Please tell us how you arrived here?” The female ofifcer is stunning. Dark brown hair, hazel eyes, perfect complexion, statuesque, great body. Head-turning in every way. This girl is unforgettable; she is the one. The girl I saw in the bar and my dream five years ago. She wears a uniform this time, and she is still a 10.

“May I know your name?” I try to sound casual, but my mind is a mess.

* * *

“General Thomas, I am Ofifcer Natalia Net of the SRI.”

Standing there with feet spread and arms hanging casually at his side, the general makes an excellent first impression. He’s confident, wiry, sports hazel eyes, and has big hands. I like big hands. There is nothing on his left ring finger. My gaze flits to his right hand, where I see a black onyx ring with a small diamond piercing the surface. My chest tightens. I’ve seen this man in a dream.

I glance at the onyx ring before settling in on his eyes. They have a touch of permanent and regal sadness.

He says, “Your position here, Ofifcer Net?” I’m nervous but try not to show it.

“I’m from Bucharest. My English is better than that of most government employees here, so they asked me to help.”

“I see. Thank you for helping. To answer your question, I walked.”

I know he’s lying, and I laugh, shake my head, and translate his words to blank stares. No one walks here.

The Astral Plane

Two Hours Earlier

A swirl of green and orange aurora borealis splash across the dark canvas of sky as I arrive 100 kilometers above the earth’s northern surface. Stars twinkle an invitation.

My name is Crew Thomas, and I’m addicted (in a nice way) to the Millennium-Falcon-like feeling I know is coming next: Hyper-acceleration through the astral plane and descent into the Hoia-Baciu Forest in Romania. Why there? It’s a long story, but I don’t mind.

In Romania, there is a girl. Not just any girl. A lucid dreamer who sees the future. She’s special. Natalia Net … Na. Ta. Lia. Net. It rings in my heart and soul like poetry, and I keep repeating it. Na. Ta. Lia. Net. I will find her and ask her to jump blindly and dangerously into my life. Most girls wouldn’t do that, of course. But she may. Rumor has it that Natalia Net is an assassin. If true, that’s a big plus.

My first stop today is the Hoia-Baciu, a centuries-old forest. Every Romanian knows that strange things happen there. But, most importantly, the gods blessed it with a gusher of energy that seeps through the ground, shared by all its creatures. I need a lot of energy, so I stop at the Hoia-Baciu whenever I travel to Europe.

You’re probably asking: Who is this guy? The answer is: I’m a ghost, a nobody. It was always that way. I grew up in a military family with a strict dad and a quiet mom. My dad was a control guy, so I didn’t have much spare time. To escape, I read science fiction and pretty much any science I could get my hands on. It paid off.

After my dad died young, I went off to college and figured out a couple of the missing links in quantum physics. That made me a freak. My dad would now marvel at my capabilities, at the hard work I put in. Maybe not. Perhaps he would simply give me his usual hitched nod, asking me what all this quantum garbage means. I imagine his reaction so that I can close this still-open chapter.

You probably haven’t a clue what quantum physics is. I explain it as an out-of-body experience; my consciousness separates from my body and travels through the astral plane. I can go almost anywhere. Sometimes my body and consciousness travel together. That’s a fancy way of describing the quantum sequence required to project my body for long distances. When I figured out a way to do that, people noticed. Not long after, I became a spy. That was a long time ago.

And today? The world is a mess. The Russians are winning the race to hypersonic missiles, and the Chinese are committed to winning the race to deep space. So, where does that leave us Americans?

In trouble.

With a downside scenario of global calamity, the CIA asked me to come out of retirement, astral project into the future, report on the relevant evil outcomes, and prevent them from happening. So much for retiring to a white sand beach. The problem is this: breaking the time barrier and traveling into the future can be accomplished only through a portal. Entering that portal can be done only through a dream. And I can’t dream.

Romania

My consciousness hurtles toward a forest glen in the Hoia-Baciu. The objective is to land softly just above the ground and reconstitute the atoms of my body just like they were before I left. I can’t carry much metal because metal atoms can’t be put back together for some reason. The exception is my ring, my portal for projecting into the future. More about that later. Hugging a soft bag of clothes is okay, and that’s what I brought with me. When the plan works, it’s a beautiful thing.

I land on my butt. “Ouch.” Embarrassing! Glad nobody saw that. The forest holds the same stillness I’ve expected; sunlight peaks through rare breaks in the trees, streaming to connect with the soft, mossy ground. The stems of the trees curve in numerous directions, unable to contain their powerful energy.

I slowly stand up. My knees aren’t what they used to be. It’s 0500 hours in Eastern Romania. I want to arrive at the “school” at 0800 hours. After I recharge in the Hoia-Baciu, I will teleport again to a spot closer to the school. I need to work on my landings.

But first, I relax, connect with nature, and absorb energy. My eyes remain closed as my body becomes translucent, and a few seconds later my atoms reconstitute on a grassy knoll a few miles from my final destination.

Now I must hurry. There are no clear paths, and getting through brush isn’t easy. On the positive side, the view is nice. Scots Pine trees draped in green lichen grow near the top of the hills, with majestic, light-colored European Beech sprinkling the ground with golden leaves below. Gorgeous. I cover several miles as quickly as I can.

Most visitors to the school arrive by air via Bucharest, which is 207 kilometers to the west. The school is remote – nearly unreachable except by helicopter – near the coast of the Black Sea. I arrive at the guard gate at precisely eight hundred hours. Above the tall fence looms a metal tower housing guards eating breakfast. The guards are not watching their screens and do not notice me approaching. No one ever just shows up at the school.

Back to my girl. Na. Ta. Lia. Net… I need to find her. That won’t be easy because we have no photos of her; remarkably, there is no record of her growing up. So I must figure out how to find her and then win her. What does that mean? That’s the tricky part. Natalia doesn’t know it yet, but once we get past the basics, she must sleep with me so I can access the future through a portal in her dreams.

As I said, this is going to take a lot of work.

The Real People

Romania is not a strange place for me. I’ve been here quite a few times and like the people. Romanians are Latins descended from ancient Romans, now surrounded by Slavs. The cultures are very difef rent. I prefer Latins because they are more like us.

The country has always been poor. For this reason, when the Slavic people migrated to Europe, they passed through Romania on the way to wealthier places. Because they didn’t stay, Romania remained true to its unique culture and religion. Its people are Orthodox and very parochial. The everyday person is welcoming, honest, and highly educated. Just poor. My kind of people.

I can’t help but envy the Romanian men because their women are scorchingly beautiful and much more. If a Romanian woman says she loves you, she means it. She will bathe her man in her hot blood – if she trusts him. If unfairly crossed, he better beware. She will serve him a cold dish of revenge. Oh, those Romanian women. Na. Ta. Lia. Net.

* * *

My name is Natalia. I’m visiting the school this week, but not as a student. They asked me to translate for a visiting American named Thomas. I’ve patiently waited for him. You are about to learn why. The school is a highly selective, unique place. Our government brings “employees” here to study. For most, it’s a charm school preparing us to disappear into the world of spying. Emphasis is on the study of linguistics, geography, psychiatry, transcendental meditation, chemistry, and quantum physics.

Staff in white coats perform diagnostic testing and try to figure out if any of us are special. The last time I was here, our parapsychologists discovered something about me that interested them. We all knew I was a lucid dreamer. Not such a big deal. But on that last trip, I exhibited an off-the-chart potential in the extrasensory perception tests, prompting a decision at high levels of the SRI to include me in an experiment that introduces lucid dreamers to a psychedelic drug called anteril that enhances ESP capability.

Anteril was a black-market psychedelic that quickly became a favorite of the American hippies in the 1980s. It was deemed safer than LSD and with fewer side effects. Scientists wrote articles and even books about it. Some claim that it can take users to a different dimension. For example, the CIA and the KGB investigated anteril. Schools like Berkeley, the University of Chicago, and Boston University researched potential commercial and military applications.

In Moscow, the Landau Institute, the elite producer of physicists in what is now the former Soviet Union, jumped in. The Russians weren’t about to lose the quantum physics race.

My life changed during that last trip. I sat back on a couch in the medical clinic and got comfortable. I took off my jacket, placed a pillow under my neck, and put my feet up. I swallowed a blue tablet containing 30 mg’s of anteril. A nurse told me I should feel tired and disoriented but encouraged me to stay awake. Drowsiness set in roughly one minute later.

A parapsychologist sitting in the next room, separated from me by a glass window, spoke into a microphone and asked if I was ready. The unexplainable happened next. I felt myself rise from my body, leaving it behind on the couch, and I walked through the wall to join the parapsychologist in the next room. The doctor was unaware of my presence. She was laying down cards, preparing to ask me to identify their shapes without being able to see them. I looked back through the window at the chaise, where my body remained, and thought, What’s happening to me?

I still had control of the voice in my inert body.

“Fire away.” My body on the couch mimicked what came from my mouth. The female doctor started turning cards. “Natalia, please relax, keep your eyes closed and tell me what you see.”

“Circle, Wavy Line, Square, Cross, Circle, Star…” I watched the cards as she turned them, calling them out with my body in the next room. Of course, I got 100 %. In disbelief, the parapsychologist shuflfed the deck and asked me to try again. I re-ran the table. The tester excitedly summoned her supervisors, and the SRI Ops Manager, Florin Oltean, hurried into the room.

With the eyes on my inert body still closed, I called out the third deck – 100 %. Oltean was flabbergasted. Oltean checked the barriers on both sides of the window and questioned the card flipper to see if she somehow cooperated. Finding no such evidence, he deemed the experiment “well-controlled.”

I walked through the same wall to rejoin my body and fell asleep on the pillow. But my first out-of-body experience was NOT over.

O.B.E

The parapsychologist and her team hovered over me, locked in animated debate. They had never seen a patient pass out after taking anteril. Now deep in a dream, I walked barefoot past Oltean with my body still comfortably asleep back on the couch. I walked through the wall into a dark hallway, where light from a small crystal down the hallway caught my eye. My chest felt tight; my heart was hammering, and I started to panic. Then I took a deep breath and allowed myself to float and experience. The panic faded, and curiosity gripped me as I tiptoed toward the light, finding a large square of black onyx inlaid in the ground. The light originated from a small crystal embedded in its middle.

I stepped onto the onyx with one foot and found it cold and refined to the touch. I did the same with my other foot, and a hole opened, causing me to fall through. The hole swallowed itself and was no more. The walls around me spun, glowing green and orange, then blue and red. Feet first, down a narrow tunnel, I plummeted. The colors melted into bright light as I landed on the floor. What floor? I had no idea.

I was still on the onyx square, straddling the glowing crystal I now recognized as a diamond. Stepping off the square, I walked through a wall into a bright hallway bustling with people in white coats. Some carried charts, some pushed equipment, and one guided a bed on wheels with a person on it lying under a blanket. I was standing in a very modern hospital, invisible and without substance. No one could see me. People were conversing, but not in Romanian. I was listening to English. Why am I in a hospital? What year is this? Nothing made sense.

Pulled by some unknown force, I passed through a closed door to find a beautiful dark-haired woman in bed. A fluid pouch hung above the woman, dripping through a tube into her wrist. Her bed was inclined, and she was breastfeeding a newborn wearing a pink gown! The baby girl had a spark in her eyes and a full mop of black hair. As I crept closer, my stomach tightened. The calm, statuesque mom could have been me, though maybe five to seven years older, perhaps mid-30s. She held her baby with fulfillment and love as if God had favored her. Hearing her mom’s cooing sounds, the adorable baby stopped suckling. At this point, I realized the woman I was staring at was me. A future me. But why? How? And with a baby! Whose baby? Her mother kissed the baby’s cheek, taking off her diamond-encrusted platinum cross; she gifted it to her daughter.

In a peaceful frame of mind, the woman whispered just one word: “Chanel.” Did she just say her name?

I’d become hungry and thirsty and had the beginnings of a cramp in my calf. Something tried to pull me to the door. What’s happening? Suddenly, the woman in bed paused, snifef d, and scanned the room.

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 your dreams.”

Should I be honest with him? Maybe. After all, he is Thomas, the man of my dreams. I cross my arms, acting stubborn for no reason. “I can perform cognitive functions during my dreams.”

“And?” he says. His tone suggests he knows more than he is letting on. “What kinds of cognitive functions”’ I hold his eye contact, blinking slowly and buying myself time.

“Mathematical functions,” I say. “Sometimes more.”

He inches towards me, his eyes piercing. “What else?”

I do not break. The air between us grows hot. I break. “Decisions. Sometimes they change the course of my dream. I can have conversations with others inside a dream. The staff here seem to find that significant.” He nods, satisfied. I’m flustered but keep a straight face.

“Good enough,” he says, “but that makes you one-in-a-thousand, not a one-in-a-million. I won’t comment on your looks. Adding that to the equation might put you closer to one in a million.”

With a straight face, I admit, “Flattery will get you everywhere. Tell me, in your country, doesn’t such a statement set you up for a sexual harassment claim? I noticed how you looked at me today. Thank you, by the way.”

“Natalia, we aren’t sitting on a couch in my country. we are next to your bedroom in Romania. And did I?”

He is testing me. Flirting. I am not used to this, but I play along.

“Notice me? Yes, I think you did.”

He says, “Hmm. Might that be because I appreciated your English skills, your elevated IQ, or that body? Or might it have been because you couldn’t take your eyes off me? I suggest we talk about it now.”

“General, why… now?”

“Because there is no time like the present. It’s not every day a woman I don’t know introduces herself beautifully half-dressed. I liked it.”

“My choices were limited. I didn’t bring a lot of clothes with me,” I say, trying to maintain a straight face. For me, Thomas is refreshingly not Romanian PC.

I continue, “Since you seem to have a special ability to make me comfortable, I’ll tell you more about my dreams.”

“Okay.”

“I can see events in the future.”

He’s in. Thomas stares at me. “That would make you one in a million. How often do you have a predictive dream, Natalia?”

“I told the staff that it’s happened a few times. But, in truth, it happens often. My last one was thrilling and scary. I’m not talking about it, especially to you.”

He doesn’t give up. “What kind of future events can you see?”

I’m not mentioning Chanel, that’s for sure.

“It depends. When I’m relaxed during the day,I see pleasant things in the future at night. When stressed during the day, I’ll dream about whatever problem I created or cleaned up. That can become a bad dream or even a nightmare. In my job, I deal with situations involving violence. Enough about me, General. The SRI could terminate me for sharing that information. By the way, I debugged my cottage the moment I arrived. I always do. They think I’m special, and they allow it. Your turn.”

“I can hear the waves. I suggest we take a walk on the beach, and we can talk more there.”

Fraternizing with Americans is risky, and the beach is outside the perimeter, making it a forbidden zone. Yet I know I can learn much from this man if we spend time alone. “Please give me a minute.” I disappear into my bedroom.

I return wearing a blue bikini and nothing else.

* * *

She doesn’t have a tan line – what an incredible physique. Brushing my arm with hers, she goes outside. Is she always this impulsive? One of my rules in life is: It’s never too soon. So out I go, knowing that “too soon” tonight could get me in trouble.

On the beach, a few minutes later, she is a natural. She’d be a star on 5th Avenue or the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. Natalia doesn’t waste time in the sand. Instead, she splashes her way through the shallow water. Not a ditsy move. She has a purpose.

“Hurry up, old man. Violating the perimeter will trigger laser sensors; they don’t extend into the water.” She’s something else. I take off my pants and shoes, hide them nearby, jump in, and swim with her a quarter-mile around the boundary. A quarter-mile in the water for me is a challenge. I suck it up.

Out of breath and back on the beach, she squeezes the water from her hair. “Are you okay?” She takes my arm, and we walk. American girls typically don’t take a man’s arm. Neither do the Asians. The Europeans do, and so do the Russians. I like the feeling; it allows me to relax. The bikini doesn’t hide much, and I know that pressing against me makes it easier for her to determine my heart rate. Natalia is a pro, a stunning pro.

“So why did you come here, General Thomas?”

“I came for two reasons. First, to attend the SRI Board meeting tomorrow and provide my perspectives on the state of the World Order. I guess they are looking for outside opinions to validate their plan.”

“And the second reason?”

That’s controversial. To be discussed later, when the only thing coming between us isn’t a bikini and water droplets clinging to her skin.

“If you don’t mind, Natalia, I’ll come to that later.” She gives me a half-nod, perhaps surprised, but also perhaps not.

She surprises me with her next question: “Are you married, General Thomas?”

I blink. “No, I’m not. And please call me Crew.”

“Why not? I’m sure many women have been interested in you, Crew.” She struggles a little to use my first name.

“I learned hard not to put someone I love in harm’s way. Marriage has never been an option. I can’t prioritize a woman before the national interest.”

Natalia isn’t put off. “How many times have you been in love?”

I admit the truth: “Twice.”

“That’s not many. What happened to the two girls?”

“They are dead. Both got in harm’s way.”

She stares wide-eyed at me, not expecting such an honest answer. I say, “What about you?” Like two dead women aren’t a big deal.

“What about me?”

“How many times have you been in love, Natalia? I’m sure many men have wanted you.”

“Never.” I take her hand as we walk. She lets me, brushing her thumb over mine to show her acceptance. We keep bumping shoulders.

“It’s rare, almost unique, that an intelligence operative rises to the level of general. Please tell me, how did you do it?”

I’ve never been asked this question. “I guess I never cared about the title of general. The bravest warriors were not generals. Neither were the greatest scientists, men like Einstein, Tesla, Hawking, and Andre Linde. ” She shows me a quizzical look.

“I made discoveries consistent with quantum physics and applied them. No one else could do that, so I moved up.”

My voice is clear, and my tone shows no stress. She notices.

“I see. What kind of things? I know I’m pushing the limits of our deal.”

“Yes, you are. But I’ll tell you anyway. I organized a military unit pursuing sound-and-light-wave mastery merged with energy generation. Over time, we figured out a technique to manifest, project, switch, and teleport. It’s the last frontier of covert intelligence.”

* * *

What? I’m speechless and puzzled. I can’t figure out why he is telling me this. We continue making our way through the sand.

He breaks the silence. “Tell me something special about you.”

“Like what?”

Well, let’s start with the basics, “Why did you join the SRI?”

“Do you want the true story? I should warn you that it’s not exciting.”

“Yes, please.”

“I thought long and hard about studying physics and applied to study at MIT in your country. They turned me down. It was more practical to stay close to home, so I worked my way through a Ph.D. in quantum physics in Bucharest. I understand everything you are telling me about the theories of projection and teleporting. Hearing from you that theory could be real is like catching lightning.”

She pauses for a moment, sighs, and continues, “I couldn’t afford to attend university and four years of grad school without the support of the SRI. I owe them a debt of gratitude.”

* * *

This is new news. The CIA was aware of an agent codenamed the “Queen,” but we weren’t knowledgeable of Natalia Net. The SRI had purged her records. A mole in Romania leaked her existence.

She wasn’t done. “To build strength and confidence in dealing with men, I practiced jiu-jitsu and earned a black belt. Later, the SRI trained me as a long-range sniper.

“My job description is fixing national security problems. They call me ‘the cleaner’ because I clean up their problems.”

I gauged her stress level as she speaks. She exhibits no stress. I ask her, “Have you ever killed anyone?”

“Ummm, yes.”

“More than one?”

“More than twenty.”

I’m holding the hand of a hit woman.

She casts her eyes toward me. “Do you still want to hold my hand?”

“Yes, if for no other reason than to keep you from pulling a knife or a pistol.” She laughs and lets go of my hand, diving into the water. I follow her in, grab her waist, and spin her around. I try to say something.

“Shhh,” she puts her index finger to my salty lips and then grazes them with hers. I kiss the corner of her parted lips as a cluster of stars palely glows above us. I have already decided I like this girl.

“Pure honesty is my way,” she says. “Do we still have a deal?”

Intertwined waist-deep in the water, I say, “It’s hard to believe you’ve never been in love.”

“Most men are dull. Some are egomaniacs. I like killing that type. Some lack moral fiber. Few of them are clean.”

She gazes over the lapping water, chin up, with blank eyes and a smirk. That look suggests that I can’t change her mind. I like that. She continues, “I remember my dad’s advice when I was little: ‘Natalia, all men are pigs. So the only question is, which pig will you marry?’ That moment made my transition easier. It gave me a subtle understanding of what I would deal with later – a lesson most girls never get. Men are weak. None good enough – at least so far.”

She holds onto me as the waves push us back and forth.

* * *

His accent, honesty, and how he looks at me – while listening – make him different. Thomas emphasizes important points by lowering his voice. This technique works; it makes me listen. He is subtly managing me. I know it, and I like it.

We navigate the stones below our feet, back to the sand, and continue our stroll. Is this guy real? His pulse reveals that he is telling the truth. He rarely blinks when answering a question and looks me straight in the eye, though not overtly. I notice he avoids speaking of himself unless asked a direct question. Good one. He returns my question with a question that scores answers. Tricky. He focuses on discerning my tone. Good one. He has a beautiful mind. That is attractive.

We make it another mile on the desolate sand to where the beach ends with a small cavern surrounded on each side by tall, smooth rocks – a cave designed by nature. I step inside and experience the feeling of wonder. The walls are approximately nine feet high and four feet wide at the entrance. An opening at the top allows the moonlight to glisten down moist walls. The ceiling angles lower toward the rear of what I now consider to be my place.

“This reminds me of a cathedral next to the sea,” says Thomas as we enter. “I suggest we stay here.”

We are alone in the violet shadow of these rocks, and I am comfortable.

Cathedral by the Sea

I lie on the sand, with a full moon filling the open area above. Full moons sometimes make me crazy. The light illuminates my curves. I am aware of his scent, which is sweet. There isn’t much more of my body for him to imagine. But what he can’t see, he probably wants to see.

Perhaps I should have worn more. Too late.

At this moment, I think of my dad.

“An American, Natalia?” he would no doubt say. “Do you not remember what I warned you off? Trust no one – only yourself.”

I look at Crew sideways. Will I ever be able to trust this pig? My occupation demands that I not, because things could get crazy. In an instant, my mind switches, and thoughts come faster and more robust than the lapping waves. What should I allow General Crew Thomas to do to me tonight?

Out of my mouth flies the words, “For the rest of the night, I want you as close as you can be without touching me. Can you accept this?” OMG, why did I say that?! Unfazed, Thomas says yes, and more quickly than I expected. Oh no, he’s winning!

* * *

Perhaps with another woman, I might have tested her will. Instead, I lie next to Natalia, staying within an inch – toes, hips, breasts, lips, all without a touch. “Good enough?”

“You are good.” Game on. I am not about to touch Natalia again. She rolls over onto her back, staring at the moon, arms stretched above her head, thighs and knees together, casually resting in the other direction. I try to ignore temptation.

“Have you ever had an out-of-body experience?” I ask her.

What? “Perhaps. What about you, Crew?”

“Yes, I’ve experienced O.B.E.” We watch together as a comet lights the sky above us and changes the conversation. Natalia is tired of talking, and she hasn’t pledged anything. She climbs on me and presses my shoulder blades to the ground, legs straddling my waist, her eyes intense. The top of her bikini falls to the sand – feelings as ancient as prehistoric people experienced flood my body.

* * *

His mind can’t overrule this; his pledge is history.

* * *

Waves rhythmically land a few feet outside the walls. Natalia scrapes the deepest and darkest of my needs. But I must learn more.

“There is a rumor at Langley that the Romanians have a beautiful agent code-named ‘Queen,’ one with lucid dreaming capabilities. Is that you?”

“Glad to hear that I’m being called beautiful. You did your homework. We have a mole. Yes, that is me. What are you going to do about it?”

Natalia stretches out and lays her breasts on my chest. She is about my height, so it is a comfortable fit. She kisses me again. I wonder why she is attracted to someone much older. The answer must be complex. Her life has been a daily cauldron of pressure with life-and-death consequences. She has nightmares and longs for a man she can trust – someone who can make decisions so she doesn’t have to.

* * *

I need a man who will treasure me, despite my imperfections. He attracts me in every way.

I’d read about Anna Grigorievna Snitkina, the wife of Russia’s famous author and philosopher, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and admired her. When Dostoevsky was forty-four, he fell in love with Anna, and they began living together. Anna was nineteen. Dostoevsky carried heavy burdens from his life – prison, hard labor, exile, gambling debts, and the pain of epileptic seizures. With depth and strength of character, Anna turned his life around. She committed herself to his legacy after his death at age sixty. It’s not like I’m a Lolita, but the age of Crew Thomas does matter to me. It makes him more interesting.

“Natalia, you asked me not to touch you. I’m trying my hardest here.”

“You’re trying too hard. I have another three questions for you since all you are doing is feeling my half-naked body. Answer them, and it will be a fully naked body.”

Crew rolls me onto my back and straddles me the same way I had him. The contact point is electric. He says, “What are your questions? You’re the one who took off your top. Not me.”

“Crew, which abilities do you have?”

“Pretty much all of them.”

“That’s impossible. Precisely which ones do you have?”

“I can manifest, astral project, switch, and teleport in the here and now, but not into the future – without a lucid dreaming partner.

“Impossible.”

“It is possible. I’ve done it many times.”

“Let’s say, for the moment, I believe you. Can anyone else in the world do what you are suggesting?”

“Yes, there are two others, but they aren’t as good as me.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because we know and have hunted each other. One is a Russian named Larin, and the other is Chinese, named Li.”

“This is too much to fathom. Should I assume the women you loved are involved with this story?”

“Yes. I believe the Russians may have killed one, and Li killed the other.”

“Were they collateral damage?”

“No, they were the targets. Final question, please. You said three.”

“You mentioned that you would tell me later the second reason you came here. That time has arrived.”

* * *

I’m not sure how to tell Natalia about the storm brewing, that my trip to Romania is recruitment…of her. That the Pentagon reluctantly authorized me to share as much information as necessary to bring her home.

“Natalia, my abilities are here-and-now by nature. If I could see the future, I could project into it and change it – but projecting into the future works only if I have a partner who can see it and connect me. That is why I came here looking for you. The world is in trouble.” Done.

* * *

What? I’m flabbergasted. His two dead girlfriends were lucid dreamers? He came here looking for me?

“Crew, if I got that right, your two lovers were killed by super-spies. So why would I join you if they are still out there?

Won’t that make me a target?” The words fly out of my mouth.

“Worse yet, you came here to recruit me to the CIA? Are you asking me to defect? If you are, I’m putting my top back on.” I might as well maintain my sense of humor.

* * *

“Natalia, I’m here to recruit you to me, not to the CIA. If need be, I’ll ask your President for permission.”

“Our President?” Her voice elevates. “What’s he got to do with this?” I find it notable that she could debate this while lying unabashedly half-naked. She seems not to notice. Tih s girl has focus and a killer instinct, precisely what I need.

I calmly ask, “I assume you have heard of Operation Bright Light?”

“Yes, of course, everyone in my country has. But we don’t know the details.”

“I’ll tell you. Operation Bright Light brought our countries together. We built a CIA prison in Bucharest that allowed us to skirt our laws limiting the interrogation of terrorists. We interrogated Sheikh Mohammed in that facility, and Mohammed spilled the beans on the location of Bin Laden. We paid your government greatly to conclude that deal, efef ctively funding your ground-to-air missile program, which will be important to you when the Russians come calling.”

“What is the point?” She is getting impatient.

“I’ve known your President a very long time. He owes me one.” I’m not about to tell her or anyone else that the President is one of my closest friends. But, by the look on her face, she does not like this.

“In any event, your three questions are up. We kept our deal?”

* * *

“Yes, Crew,” I say softly, “you lived up to the deal, but we will make another one. I have no answer for your suggestion that I leave my country and sleep with you each night for your gain.” He looks taken aback by my honesty. My biting honesty. Oh, if my father could see me now. So far, Crew isn’t dull and doesn’t lack moral fiber. My gaze flits over him. He’s clean. An egomaniac? We shall see. But he is not a pig.

Enough of that. I pull Crew to my lips. To me, there are fake and real kisses. The former are markers leading to the fulfillment of human needs. They mean nothing. The real ones are delicious and passionate and expose the giver and taker’s desires, triggering profound feelings. Desire creates action. Without passion, there is no action. His kiss is electric.

I have loved no one. Maybe it’s time to change that.

* * *

I brush her cheek lightly with my fingers and kiss her neck. Then her shoulder, on my way to her breasts. She has goosebumps. My pledge is history. Her legs are parted, and I keep them that way with my relaxed hand, then with my tongue, making any attempt on her part to resist useless. She jolts and pulls my face to hers, desperate to swallow me whole. I can feel her breath as her lips search for places that will make me lose control. We make love like there is no tomorrow. She falls asleep in my arms, safe, cared for, and respected. I wrap her as no other man could.

The Dream

In my dream, I see a female falcon soaring above the clouds early in the morning. The falcon lands in its nest atop a mountain. Her chick is waiting in the nest for food. The falcon feeds the chick and stretches one and then its other wing over the chick to protect it while it eats.

* * *

I watch Natalia in her dream. Her REM elevates quickly. Deep REM typically happens ninety minutes into sleep, if at all. She is in deep REM after just a few minutes. I can’t help but whisper to her, “What do you see?”

She is motionless. Her eyelids flutter; her face is calm, tranquil. “I see a mother falcon and her chick.”

“Where?”

“In their nest close to the top of a mountain.”

I’ve indeed found a lucid dreamer. “What happened next?”

“The falcon rose majestically from its nest. It was angry.”

She is struggling. Her words turn to, “No. No.” Her body contorts. She’s in a nightmare. Crew, help. Help! She sends me thoughts to wake her up. I can hear them. But they are only thoughts. I shake her shoulders. “Natalia, wake up. Wake up!” Her eyes open. She breathes deeply and reaches for me.

“What did you see?”

“A falcon trying to kill me.”

I know that the most frequent bad dreams involve something or someone trying to kill the dreamer.

We sleep peacefully, but we sleep too late.

* * *

My God, they will be waking up soon. “Crew, it’s almost dawn. I must get back.”

At that very moment, a falcon takes flight. The drone is a perfect combination of animal and artificial intelligence. Its job is to locate me. I know this drone flies at speeds approaching 100 miles per hour, so it will not take long to find me.

I’d learned from the IT guys about the drone called “Einstein.” According to the geeks, it was designed and named for research on birds and bees, first conducted by Albert Einstein in 1949. Einstein believed that animals could be the key to discovering human capabilities, and he was right. The SRI spent more than a decade turning Einstein’s idea into the perfect intersection between biology and physics. The Einstein drone can survey an area of roughly ten square kilometers and launch micro-drones the size of bees, blanketing an additional ten square kilometers. But Einstein does more than search. It can fire a deadly laser beam, making it a state-of-the-art war machine, a national treasure.

And it is looking for me.

The Manifest

The sun is rising, and we are far from the fence. The SRI may already have noticed. I watch Natalia run down the beach and dive into the water. She knows her job, and maybe her life, is on the line. I am mesmerized by her movement. Undeniably great legs, a perfect body nearly all visible, at least thirty years my junior. She runs and swims efof rtlessly. 5–9”, 36-24-35, plus or minus. The old scale is still good for me.

Last night, energy flowed up my spine each time she touched me. It traveled my core in a way identical to when I took a metaphysical leap. She has a rare reservoir of energy. Natalia didn’t wait for me. Good. She will need to be independent to make our relationship work – a relationship now predestined.

I know it will take at least twenty minutes for her to return to her cottage. So I have to hurry.

I see the bird-like drone above at about 1000 feet. I’ve not seen a drone so sophisticated; its disguise is perfect. Absent the sound; I might have been looking at a falcon. Natalia’s dream predicted this flight.

I quickly return to the rock cavern where we spent the night, sit down, cross my legs, close my eyes, and meditate. My near-silent mantra is lyrical; it’s a repetition of the nine words of the Falun Gong until my voice finds the perfect frequency.

Fa-Lun Da-Fa Hao

Zhen-Shan-Ren Hao.

In Mandarin: Falun Dafa is Good. Truthfulness-Compassion-Forbearance is Good. The power of these words cannot be understood or understated. They are part of the foundation of my ability to manifest, project, and teleport. My eyes remain closed as my mind seeks the astral plane. Energy drifts into me from forces in difef rent dimensions spinning as I absorb power from parallel universes.

As a college kid, I discovered the power of this mantra and somehow leaped forward by attaching this mantra to the principles of quantum physics. Then, when I stumbled into the combination, the world turned upside down. Later, I realized this power enabled me to do almost anything in the world of spying. In China, people are still arrested for even uttering these Falun Gong words because they threaten the Communist Party. This may be good because my enemy, Johnny Li, will never discover this path to power.

Enough of that. I’m wasting time. Natalia needs to get back. Energy travels to the left side of my brain and then to the right side in Hemi-Sync. It took twenty minutes to reach a transcendental state when I first learned to manifest. Now it takes only the time necessary to repeat my mantra.

I rise through the ceiling of the three-wall enclosure, leaving my body behind in a state of drowsiness. My senses explode with the sounds and rhythmic pulse of the earth. The moment has arrived. I desire to set Natalia free. With that desire comes freedom.

* * *

As I scurry down the beach clad in nothing but a bikini, I hear the buzz of Einstein. Step by step, or lunge by lunge, I move as fast as possible on the soft, sinking sand. Last night…

I stop, momentarily escaping my humiliating walk of shame. The whirring of Einstein is getting closer. I move quickly up the incline of sand to reach a flat surface that leads into trees. God, I wish I had a cover-up. Even my slip. I get to the trees, shaking my head. Would a slip look worse? Exacerbate the morning-after look? Yes, definitely. Amidst the hovering of Einstein, I eye the welcoming lap of waves and the sparkle of the morning water, and I wonder how long I can hold my breath. Could I hold it for the remainder of the journey back to the cottage? I roll my eyes. No, Natalia.

Swim “laps” home, and tell them I was working on my backstroke? I hop over the sand, reaching another tree to hide behind. No, that won’t work. We don’t swim in the

Black Sea for a reason; it’s not okay to be observed by enemies. It’s a lose-lose situation. I move as quickly as I can to cover, but knowing I am about to be discovered, filmed, and caught.

* * *

It is time to save Natalia. I have a feeling this will not be the last time. My consciousness separates from my physical body on its way to finding her. I see the “falcon,” and it can’t see me; I float above it, observing, and descend to just above its flight path. The drone is at work, its cameras moving side to side, searching for Natalia, who must be frantic about returning to her cottage not filmed in a bikini. That sexy bikini. I see the camera’s lens is pointed straight ahead or down, completely disregarding its peripherals. A design flaw, but this doesn’t matter because it wouldn’t see me anyway. A small circuit board is embedded in the back of Einstein’s neck. I focus a beam of energy a few inches from the circuit. In less than a millisecond, it crackles, sputters, and the $20 million drone plummets into free fall, crashing into the rocks just off the beach, where it explodes, exposing its stomach. Mini-drones pour from it, broken.

I circle the crash for pleasure, mimicking a falcon circling its prey in celebration of death.

* * *

There is an emptiness in the pit of my stomach. The drone is closer than before, and I imagine getting reprimanded.

Half naked. Oh, God. From this point on the beach, I can almost see my cottage, but there are no trees on the beach. It’s sand, sand, and more sand. I prepare to run faster than

I ever have. This is not going to end well. As I take my first few steps, I watch with astonishment as the dreaded drone hurtles through the air. Downwards. Fewer than thirty feet away from me, it smashes on rocks. What the hell! I don’t care that the drone was after me. At a minimum, I’m mad at whatever rookie tech geek was responsible for the terminated flight – incompetence.

* * *

I spot Natalia as my conscious being soars over the forest. She’s not running like before, no. She walks calmly but with a swagger in her hips and tension in her back and shoulders. She’s frowning. The tips of her hair sway with her movement. I want to chuckle; she’s annoyed with the finale of Einstein. Oh, Natalia. You are the one for me.

Beyond her, guards are out in the dimmed light of 6:00 am. I take care of them, one by one. Three guards are down. They will wake up dizzy. “I desire her to be in her room.” The manifest is complete.

I return to my cottage, ignoring the laser sensors. Once I’m inside, a sudden feeling of loneliness overtakes me. I want to see Natalia again as soon as possible, and this thought startles me. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way.

* * *

How did I get back so easily? What did he do? Exhausted, I step into my cottage, half expecting a welcoming committee in my living room. Thank God no one is here. Do they even know I was gone? A formal invitation to the SRI board meeting was placed under my door. I opened it with great anticipation. I’ve never attended such a meeting.

I lie in bed for a few moments, sweating. What just happened? I can hardly remember the dash. I can’t get his touch or his voice out of my mind.

After showering, I get ready for work.

Friend or Foe?

Presenting to the board of the SRI might be fun. Then again, it could drift in a very difef rent direction. I’m not sure how this crowd will take having an American CIA operative amongst them.

Hidden behind the ofifce of the school’s Operations Director is a conference room with seating for eight. I wonder about Natalia. Is she invited? The SRI delivered a detailed meeting agenda to my cottage. In charge will be Eduard Raul Helsing, the Director General and Chairman of the Board of the SRI. Three other board members will be present: Brigadier General George-Viorel Voiculescu, Major General Ion Grecu, and Lieutenant General Dumitru Ponoru. Helsing is a Ph.D. political scientist, not a warrior. But, he oversees 12,000 agents, making the SRI one of the world’s largest intelligence organizations. That makes Helsing a player.

Florin Oltean will be in attendance. He is the operations director who runs the place with an iron fist. Oltean is openminded, especially on topics of science. He has to be. He oversees active experiments with DNA manipulation, genetic improvement, and quantum techniques, all connected in some way with spying.

Major Alina Balan will attend as the secretary. Her bio says she runs the national cyber security program. I’m not sure why she is the secretary, but I guess I’ll soon find out.

The boardroom door opens, and a stunning blond with blue eyes and “physically gifted” walks out and greets me. I assume she is from Transylvania. Lots of slim blonds there. I like that thought. She wears a pin-stripe suit with a white silk blouse and a mid-length skirt, slit up one side, partially revealing her thigh.

“Good morning, General Thomas. I am Alina Balan. Welcome to Romania. Your participation makes this meeting different from others we have had.”

Her English accent is excellent. She looks me in the eye and extends her hand. I accept it. Unusual. She has long, delicate fingers. Her hand is relaxed and welcoming.

When shaking hands with the opposite sex, Romanian customs dictate that touch is acceptable for only a couple of seconds. Alina holds my hand twice that long. Alina Balan is just a little too perfect. Too hot. What is her role here?

We walk together into the boardroom. While I glance around, looking as casual as I can, it’s hard not to acknowledge what the room has to ofef r. It exhibits wealth not often found in Romania. The room revolves around a Harkness conference table, topped with a thick layer of glass decorated with a chiseled edge. The curved legs are painted bronze. After marveling over the table, I averted my attention to the displayed artwork. In one corner is a sculpture by Constantin Brancusi. Although abstract, the piece mimics a bird’s closed body. It rests on a piece of white marble. I hide a smile, thinking about the morning’s events and how I’d destroyed their prized falcon.

Surrounding the entering generals, the walls house Spoerri and Luchian – famous Romanian artists – artwork and an engraving by Albrecht Durer. Durer was the German artistic genius who trained under Da Vinci and later wrote Europe’s first advanced mathematics book.

I shake each general’s hand, trading formalities, and turn toward the door, wondering if a certain brunette assassin I’m crazy about would be entering anytime soon. Then for the shocker. Next to the Durer hangs a Da Vinci painting. The Da Vinci is probably worth more than the school and the entire town of Mamaia nearby. This room is unlike anything I’ve seen in Romania.

I take note of two empty seats, no windows, LED lighting – unusual for Romania – and a small camera in the darkest corner near the ceiling. Flowers in a vase on the table undoubtedly contain a microphone. Amateurish.

I recognize some of these guys in the room. I had met Helsing the day before. Very professional.

General Voiculescu was in the news as the first Romanian diplomat ever invited to the White House. He must be important.

General Ponoru is their interface with NATO on cybercrime. Major Balan works for Ponoru.

And Major General Ion Grecu. I don’t want to tangle with him. I’ve read his CIA file. He’s less sophisticated but a warrior. And smart. I will keep an eye on him.

At the Board Meeting

Helsing speaks first.

“I call to order the Second Quarter Board Meeting of the SRI. Major Balan, please record the date, time, and attendees and keep the minutes.”

Balan gets right to work, scribbling away. She not-so-casually glances at me, lingering for a moment and giving me this odd sexy look before returning to her work. Oh, boy.

Helsing continues, “Our agenda today is in the Board book in front of you. It is short.”

Major General Grecu gives his intro a little snort, leafing through the book’s pages.

Helsing summarizes. “We will discuss Intelligence gathered over the past year, and we have invited General Thomas as a special guest.” Some light clapping fills the room; Balan claps audibly louder than anyone else.

“Any questions before we begin?” Helsing waits for the others to answer, but no one reacts. Then he turns to me and continues: “General Thomas, I hope your trip was smooth and your lodging is acceptable. Thank you for your willingness to discuss our complex world and where it might head.”

I observe protocol. “Thank you for having me. My accommodations are excellent, and the service by your staff is impeccable. I realize the importance of your topic since Romania is one of the former states under the influence of the Soviet Union. That’s becoming a hot topic under President Putin.”

I pause to hold their attention.

Grecu uses the opportunity to jump right in.

“Excuse me. What are we doing here? Chairman Helsing, will we discuss our National Strategy with the senior commander of the American CIA?” Others are nodding, and it’s clear they have chosen Grecu to put me on the spot. Helsing doesn’t like Grecu and is anticipating the worst. Generals don’t like to be called by their first names in formal meetings…

“Ion, the world is changing. Either we change with it, or we die. General Thomas has an extraordinary view of where the world might be going. We can learn. Early in his career, General Thomas produced a report that challenged intelligence-gathering forever. ‘Analysis and Assessment of the Gateway Process’ provided a framework for expanding human consciousness, out-of-body experiments (OBE), and altered states of mind. If you haven’t yet read the report, please do. The first section provides a timeline of key historical events that led the CIA to investigate paranormal skills. The second section discusses the principles of various theories required for mastery of hypnosis and transcendental meditation. The last section outlines the steps to transcend space and time.”

Grecu is quiet but maintains eye contact with me. That stalemate lasts only a few seconds before he blurts out, “So what role did you play in the report?

I answer, “The report was written about me. I understand you have tried to explore the quantum sciences. Perhaps I can be of help. Our two nations are bound together by friendship and trust.” Eyebrows shoot up around the room.

Helsing: “There are photos of Thomas near the Berlin Wall when it fell in 1989 and again that year at Tiananmen Square. There is a record of him traveling to Mogadishu in 1993, where two American Black Hawk helicopters went down in hostile territory. Most of the crew died, but a few survived the crash. Shortly after Thomas arrived, a team of fewer than ten men rescued the trapped soldiers and somehow found a way back through congested, enemy-filled streets while killing 1000 Somali crazies who were peppering them with bullets and bombs.

“Thomas was photographed during Saddam Hussein’s capture in 2004 and again with McChrystal in 2007 during the Iraq Surge. He was on the ship in 2011 when the Navy Seals dumped Bin Laden’s body into the ocean.

“He negotiated Operation Bright Light with our former President. The US rewarded us handsomely for their black-ops site in Bucharest. That facility led to the arrest of Sheikh Mohammed, who bombed the World Trade Center. Mohammed eventually led us to the capture of Bin Laden. Bright Light is a deal that worked for both sides. As you know, Bright Light paid for the missile defense system that protects us from the

Russians and continues to pay our salaries in this perpetually tough economy.”

Grecu is a stocky guy who looks like someone stufef d him into a uniform a size too small. He shrinks back but glares at me, though I think I’ve won the others.

I say, “Gentlemen, should I continue?”

Helsing firmly says, “General, my apologies for this opening. Please continue and know that you are a proven friend of Romania.”

With that statement, I’m on stage. “Gentlemen and lady, to begin, there is dissatisfaction in Moscow with the current alignment in Eastern Europe. That’s concerning. I’m unsure if I can help, but I’m happy to provide my frank views. ”

“Our relationship with Romania is valued. Though your media paints a false picture, Operation Bright Light has been a success for both countries. Our government now holds Romania in high esteem. We view you as a partner.

“The Russians are becoming a problem. They annexed Crimea and now have their eye on critical portions of Ukraine.” I carefully check each participant’s body language. Balan sits next to Ponoru and takes notes. Most of the others sit back in their chairs, arms and legs crossed. Negative and disinterested they are. That is about to change.

“The United States, China, and Russia are the three dominant players on the world stage. Everyone else is a second-, third-, or fourth-tier player, frankly not worthy of today’s discussion. The United States has a four-year planning horizon. Russia operates under a ten-year plan though they go to press with only half of it. The Chinese have a one-hundred-year plan unavailable for viewing by anyone outside Communist Party leadership or the People’s Liberation Army.

“The US owns the most powerful military machine and the second-largest nuclear arsenal. The Chinese are second in military strength. The Russians are weak, nearly bankrupt, and disorganized. But they have the largest nuclear arsenal.

“The US has the most robust economy. The Chinese are second, with the Russians being broke and needing a higher oil price to meet ends.

“All three countries are exploring bio-weapons. Each has a significant cyberattack initiative and has joined the race to develop hypersonic missiles that travel at five times the speed of sound. The US has a definite edge in military technology because our technical universities – schools like MIT, the University of Chicago, Stanford, and Cal Tech – cooperate closely with the Department of Defense. That said, the Chinese have infiltrated our universities with PhD-level grad students, many of whom work for the PLA.

“The unknown frontier of war combines cyber with artif-i cial intelligence. An unstoppable trend is AI-controlled robots trained to kill and make autonomous decisions on taking life in battle. There are no ethics roadmaps in place to constrain this from happening. The Chinese are ten to fifteen years ahead of everyone else in this technology. ”

I can see that everyone in the room is fully engaged and paying attention – even Grecu.

“Recently, there have been reports of a lab in China working on coronaviruses with our own National Institutes of Health. That same Chinese lab has military connections.

“We need to stop believing that China is our friend. It is not. The nation with the most powerful bio-weapon capability will own a significant competitive advantage. The country with the best cyber-hacking capability could shut down a large piece of the world, then blow it up with hypersonic missiles.

“Given political trends and money flow, the Chinese will have the world’s strongest military machine and economy within the next seven years. It’s inevitable – knowing this, neither the US nor Russia trusts the Chinese. The Americans and Russians will eventually cut a deal to hedge world domination by China. It will be an uneasy alliance based on fear, not on love. Usually, those don’t last.”

I now see folks creeping forward to the edge of the table. Romanians tend to have a parochial, narrow view of the world. In this room, they are beginning to see doom. To make matters worse, I’m just warming up.

“Many focus on the 9-dash lines of the Chinese growth plan. There used to be 11-dash lines on that map. Politics interfered, and the Chinese only recently started advertising 9-lines. Their One-Hundred-Year Plan talks about 15-lines. You should expect the Chinese to take hundreds of islands in the Senkaku chain away from Japan. It’s a fish- and oil-rich territory and the Chinese don’t have enough food or oil. The Japanese lack nuclear weapons and have only a treaty with distant Americans to defend them. No leverage at all. The Senkaku Islands go to the Chinese.

“Taiwan falls, followed by many islands in Indonesia, which the Chinese have gradually populated for the past decade. The subsequent acquisition will be their next-door neighbor, oil-rich Brunei, a country having no solid allies. Ninety percent of its proven oil reserves are untapped. Finally, the Chinese will take Australia, which has the raw materials to power its manufacturing industries.

“China’s destiny is to become the world’s wealthiest nation. Game theory and military simulations indicate that the targeted countries can do little, if anything, to stop them, including the United States.

“As for the United States, we are tied up in knots by our politics and a flawed code of law. We will not be able to conquer our way to growth. So we must form alliances. Since many countries have nuclear weapons, nuclear game theory is nearing center stage. Expect the unexpected. A Muslim terrorist organization will eventually launch a nuclear-tipped missile, making politics more fragile.

“The US recently formed a sixth fighting force, the U.S. Space Force, independently funded and managed. It is not part of our Air Force. Internal politics. The impetus was Russian and Chinese advances in laser weapons capable of taking down our satellites or even a space station. We believe long-term independence for the US comes from winning the race to deep space, and I expect the U.S. Space Force to take the lead in our military organization structure.

“Here is the good news, well, at least for us: Northrop Grumman has completed production of our first hypersonic missile. Lockheed Martin is close behind. The Chinese will get nervous when the Russians go live with their missiles. A future alliance with the US and Russia then becomes possible. The Chinese are obsessed with catching up.

“Russian strategy? You can expect the Russians to take Ukraine, Belarus, Moldova, and countries bordering the Black Sea, including Romania. At some point, the Russians get strong enough that NATO can’t stand in the way. Once they control the North Atlantic and the Black Sea, their final frontier is the Arctic Circle. So the Russians will move to control the Arctic oil treasures. Whether Sun Tsu, Miyamoto Musashi, Attila the Hun, Napoleon Bonaparte, or Julius Caesar, all great military minds know you must take the high ground.

“The only territory that is higher is space. Three countries will land on Mars, the foothold for reaching deep space within the following twenty years. The US, Russia, and China are investing heavily to be first. Each will soon have its own inter-terrestrial space station.”

“Let me guess,” Grecu starts. “The US wins that race?’

I nod in confirmation.

“The US will win this race and eventually look to the Space Railway tether into deep space, where they form alliances with alien civilizations.

“Finally, on the ground, cyber hacking will soon include quantum physics principles.” I try not to look at Grecu after this comment, but I can feel his eyes on me. I’d rather not touch more on that controversy in this audience.

“That, gentlemen – and even more importantly, lady – is my view of the world and where we are heading.”

Grecu speaks first. “General, do you mean to say the Russians are coming for us?” His eyes are fierce, and his tone is elevated.

“Yes, no question. Controlling the Black Sea and Northern Atlantic ports will allow them to control the energy markets and build wealth. All of Europe will critically rely on Russia for energy. They have undoubtedly cut a quiet deal with Turkey to remain on the sidelines concerning Romania. Let’s not forget that Putin is a KGB grad. His lifelong goal is to put the Soviet Union back together.”

Grecu can’t help himself and slams his fist on the table. “Let them try!”

I calm him. “General Grecu, the US shares your concern. Operation Bright Light began our relationship. You earned more respect when you contributed soldiers to our surge in Iraq. I suggest both countries continue to expand this friendship.”

Helsing breaks in: “Gentlemen, our time is up. I suggest we take a ten-minute break before beginning our next section. We could spend hours discussing the fine points of General Thomas’s views. For now, I want to thank him and suggest we further discuss his views privately.” Helsing approaches me, hand warmly extended.

“General Thomas, thank you. Please extend our best wishes to your colleagues at the CIA and the Department of Defense. We look forward to building the relationship.”

Helsing leaves the room. He has a few urgent wake-up phone calls to make. The second half of our board meeting will begin ten minutes after we take a break.

Alina Balan rises to show me out. She takes my arm; what? and propels me to the reception area.

Pleasantly Aggressive

“General Thomas, I have so many questions I don’t know where to start. Do you have some time later?” She removes her blue suit coat. Underneath her silk shirt, she is not wearing a bra. Her eyes penetrate mine. I try my best to reciprocate.

“So you are a major, Ms. Balan?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Have you ever visited the United States?”

“No, sir.”

“Then how did you learn such perfect Americanized English?”

She pauses and lowers her tone. “I studied in a place much like this school.”

“The outfit you’re wearing doesn’t seem like a standard issue.”

I change the topic. “How many women have risen to major in the SRI?”

“One, sir.”

“By the way, Major Balan, I’m retired. You can call me Crew, if you like.”

She extends her hand, her blue eyes blazing, “I intend to. Can we have dinner?”

The reception elevator bell rings, and the door opens. The guest of the next session exits the elevator, and it is Ofifcer Natalia Net.

I am surprised but try not to show it. Balan still holds my hand. Natalia will understand; it’s just a business handshake.

* * *

Riding up a slow elevator gives me time to collect myself. My invitation arrived sometime before I returned to my cottage. Do they know or not? I prepare for both scenarios.

The elevator door opens to a scenario I hadn’t considered. I slowly exit. That bitch Alina Balan is holding the hand of my man. And he is holding hers. She is giving him her trademark flirtatious laugh. What the hell? Did last night not mean anything to him? I look away, fixing my gaze beyond. I will not give them satisfaction as I walk right past them into the boardroom.

Let me be clear about Alina; I neither respect nor like her. We are the same age and were in the same class at the University Politehnica of Bucharest, our top technical university. I studied physics and Alina, computer sciences. Neither of us received a grade less than an A, and we completed our undergraduate work tied with one male student for our class’s Romanian equivalent of valedictorian. I took the most demanding advanced courses and should have won. Computers are easy.

Men find Alina stunning. I don’t understand why. But Alina gets what she wants, whether an introduction, a drink, a man, a promotion, or help on a test. Very rarely does anyone say no to Alina. I liked a couple of guys at the university; Alina selected one of them and slept with him. So much for the girl code. I’m not about to let that happen again.

The SRI followed our progress and paid for our graduate degrees. After graduating, I went directly into covert operations, learning the skills required to be a spy. Alina went in another direction, becoming a systems analyst in covert intelligence.

I learned warfare and how to kill.

Alina learned how to become a common cyber hacker. She got close with guys inside Anonymous, the Chaos Computer Club, and the Legion of Doom – collectively the most influential group of hackers in world history. Knowing Alina, I’m sure she entered without exposing her true self. Or maybe I should say she got in because she exposed herself. Because that’s what she does with men. Just like she’s doing right now with my Thomas! Thomas, who is holding her dirty hand.

I will admit Alina’s achieved a high level of programming skills. She gets credit for that. But she’s a manipulator, opening private chats with guys in these clubs. Later, she shares code, leading to suggestive photos of her body, no doubt not much later. That is Alina.

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