Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense

by Luana Ehrlich

  “I’m consistently wrong when it comes to you. Remember how you knew those Arabic students back in ’95 weren’t really in Norman to learn engineering?”

  For a few minutes, we reminisced about the good times we’d had working together years ago. However, I noticed both of us deliberately left out the bad parts.

  He asked me about my cover story, and after I told him what Legends had cooked up for me, I gave him one of my newly minted business cards.

  He didn’t comment on my promotion to Senior Fellow.

  Slipping the card inside his wallet, he asked, “Did you approve the security I had installed out here?”

  “I checked on it yesterday, and it looked great. Thanks for not mounting a video camera on every fence post and giving me a security patrol.”

  He seemed genuinely surprised at my statement. “Now, why would I do that?” he asked. “Carlton said you needed to stay under the radar here.”

  I gave him a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look. “I was going by past experience.”

  He smiled. “Oh, yeah, that.”

  “Yeah, that.”

  “So, what’s up with this medical leave? Your leg looks gimpy, but otherwise you seem fine.”

  Danny loved to talk, but he also had a way of getting other people to talk, and I found myself telling him all about losing my network and hiding out in Tehran. Then, I described how I’d lost my temper during my debrief and told Deputy Ira how to do his job.

  Danny almost choked on his coffee. “And he didn’t fire you right away?”

  “No, Carlton got my sentence reduced to a medical. Deputy Ira doesn’t want to see my handsome face for a year.”

  “So why is Carlton concerned about your security?”

  “Apparently, VEVAK didn’t like it that I was able to kill two of their guys and escape their clutches. If the chatter coming out of Iran is to be believed, they’re sending one of their Hezbollah friends over here to mete out some punishment on me.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “I’m not very fond of it myself.”

  Pushing aside his empty plate, he said, “Terrorist connections are part of my job at OSBI. Right now, I’m working with the FBI and Homeland Security on a human smuggling ring being run by one of the drug cartels out of Mexico. They’re using the I-35 corridor from Texas on up to Oklahoma and beyond. We’re not talking about some poor farm workers coming north to look for work either.”

  “So who are they?”

  “The FBI has identified them as a group affiliated with Hezbollah. One of the Agency’s operatives in Syria gave us solid intel indicating Iran and Syria have set up a joint operation smuggling Hezbollah extremists into the States. We believe they’re setting up sleeper cells somewhere in this area.”

  I nodded. “Is Iran funding them?”

  “That’s what all the field reports suggest. Iran keeps threatening to bring down all kinds of havoc on us if we bomb their nuclear sites. I’m betting that’s what this is all about.”

  “So what intel do you have so far?”

  “Not much. Right now, I’m in the process of recruiting some assets in the Arabic community.” He shook his head. “Of course, just like similar operations we’ve conducted overseas, it’s going to take some time. I’m just hoping we have that kind of time.”

  “Speaking of your glory days in the Agency, did you ever hear of a Hezbollah hit man named Ahmed when you were running around the Middle East?”

  He looked out the window and thought about my question for a few seconds. “If I remember correctly, Ahmed Al-Amin was a Hezbollah operative out of Syria. There were rumors he was an assassin. Is that the guy?”

  I shrugged. “I just saw some raw data on a man named Ahmed. No surname. No confirmation either.”

  I removed our dirty plates from the table and placed them in the sink—cleaning up after cooking was the only part I hated about being in the kitchen.

  As I rinsed off the plates, I noticed Danny getting up from the dining room table and walking over to the picture window. He appeared to be scanning the horizon beyond the lake.

  After a few minutes, he asked, “Have you got everything you need out here?”

  I assumed he meant weapons instead of anything else, so I assured him I was a well-armed man.

  Continuing to let his gaze wander across the landscape, he said, “I want you to call me at anytime and for any reason.”

  “If I need backup, you’ll be the first person I call.”

  He laughed and turned away from the window. “Yeah, I’ve heard that from you before, but let’s hope the only scary thing you see coming at you across that prairie is a tornado barreling down on this place. You know we have some pretty big ones in this neck of the woods.”

  “So, I’ve heard.”

  I walked him out to his car.

  However, just before he got inside, I asked him, “Do you and Michelle go to church anywhere around here?”

  “That’s a funny question coming from you. Is it part of your cover?”

  “No, another story entirely. But yesterday I met someone who invited me to her church, and I just thought I’d ask you.”

  “No, we’ve never been to church anywhere around here,” he said, getting into his car and starting to laugh. “But, hey, you probably ought to try it. That’s what a Senior Fellow would do, I’ll bet.”

  He was still laughing as he drove off.

  I went back inside, cleaned up the kitchen, and found the list of physical therapy places given to me by Kellerman. I chose one called Therapy in Motion. When I called, the receptionist suggested I come in for an evaluation around ten o’clock the following day.

  I also called Professor Paul Franklin at his office on the OU campus. He didn’t answer, so I left my name and cell phone number on his voice mail.

  Next, I decided to go clothes shopping.

  Dressing appropriately for my cover was one of the details Legends had left up to me to figure out. On my other assignments, the Kit had contained everything I needed to blend into the culture where I was living. However, the duffel bag prepared for me at the air base in Turkey had only been filled with two tracksuits and the barest of toiletry essentials, whereas the clothes in my closet at The Gray had consisted of jeans and knit shirts, plus a pair of dress pants and an oxford dress shirt. Of course, I had my new Armani suit, but I didn’t think wearing it on campus would help me blend seamlessly into the environment.

  There was a Dillard’s department store in the shopping mall on the west side of town, and I drove over there. Besides picking out a few more shirts and a couple of dress pants, I also selected a leather jacket, a camel-colored sports coat, some dress shoes, a handful of OU shirts—to show my team spirit—and an OU ball cap.

  Just as I finished paying the cashier, Paul Franklin called me back. I took my purchases and headed out to the parking lot, talking to him as I walked toward my car.

  “Thanks for calling me back, Professor. I was wondering when we could get together?”

  “Have you read the manuscript yet?”

  “Ah . . . no, I haven’t had a chance to do that.”

  “Well, why did you call me if you haven’t done that yet? There’s not much point in getting together until you’ve read it.”

  I was going back over the brief conversation in my head, trying to decide what I might have said to irritate Franklin, when I spotted a dark-skinned guy in jeans and a zipped-up hoodie standing next to my Range Rover in the parking lot. He was at the left rear wheel and was walking toward the driver’s side door.

  “You’re right, of course. I’ll get that done tonight. How about meeting tomorrow at one o’clock?”

  “I have a student coming in at one.”

  I circled around behind the guy, stopping beside a Buick sedan and fumbling in my pocket as if I were looking for my keys.

  “Okay, then, what about two?” I asked.

  “Let’s make it eleven in the mor
ning.”

  “Eleven it is. Should we meet at your—”

  The line went dead.

  I slipped the phone in my pocket, dropped my packages beside the Buick, and walked up behind the guy. When I was about five feet away, he turned left at my car’s front fender, meandered past the next set of parking spaces and headed toward the mall’s entry doors.

  Before retrieving my packages, I did a thorough check of the Range Rover’s undercarriage, wheel wells, everything—a thorough check.

  I found nothing.

  In fact, as I thought about it, I realized I hadn’t actually seen the guy touch my car.

  After placing my purchases in the back seat, I sat down behind the wheel, took a long, deep breath, and turned the key in the ignition. The engine purred happily.

  So did I.

  When I got home, I checked my Agency email. Carlton had forwarded a notification alert from Katherine’s office indicating they were in the process of trying to confirm the veracity of a conversation one of Tony Fowler’s NSD assets in Iran had overhead between two Hezbollah militants about an American spy. The agent reported Hezbollah was sending a man called Ahmed to locate and kill the American.

  Carlton had added some personal words to me at the bottom of the notification: “We have no confirmation of this name, much less an accurate identification. Remain vigilant.”

  I appreciated what Tony Fowler had done by already disclosing this information to me before turning it over for analysis to Katherine’s office. Like all Agency personnel, he knew information at Headquarters was a commodity—it was always needed to buy, pay back, or influence others. In Fowler’s case, it seemed obvious he was trying to pay off the debt he owed me for putting my life in danger in Iran.

  I sent Fowler a short encrypted email. It contained one word: “Thanks.”

  Then, since I was on my computer, I pulled up Professor Franklin’s manuscript.

  The professor had already given our collaborative book a working title. It was Israel and Islam: Revising the Middle East Narrative.

  If nothing else, the title was intriguing.

  However, after reading the first twenty pages, I slammed the laptop’s lid down so hard, I had to check back later to make sure I hadn’t broken it.

  Franklin’s premise in “our” book was that all the conflicts between Israel and the rest of the Middle East could be resolved if the Jewish people were relocated anywhere outside present-day Israel. It was a ridiculous concept, but he had couched it in the scholarly language of academia.

  He wrote as if Israel’s history with the land—spanning thousands of years—simply didn’t exist. In essence, he was denying there was a link between the Jewish people and the land of Israel. On this basis, he advocated there was no reason for giving the Jews their tiny strip of land in the first place. Instead, he proposed a new narrative in the peace process whereby Israel would be given the opportunity to either leave the land of their own accord or face annihilation.

  His views sounded suspiciously familiar.

  In the manuscript, he quoted passages from the Quran, but he omitted any references to the Bible, positioning himself squarely on the side of Iran and most Islamic militants, who were opposed to the Jewish people simply because they existed.

  Trying to cool down, I walked out to the patio. Then, noticing how peaceful the lake was, I decided to trek down to the wooden dock. After walking the length of the pier, I impulsively removed my socks and shoes and dangled my feet over the side, splashing around in the cold water.

  Calmer now, I sat there and thought about Franklin’s manuscript.

  Because my affinity for Israel was not a secret at the Agency, it occurred to me someone might be playing a cruel joke on me by coupling me up with Franklin. However, after giving this theory due consideration, I discarded it. Even though the DDO’s office knew of my strong support for Israel, I couldn’t believe they had paired me up with Franklin as a joke or even as a means of punishment.

  Finally, I decided that since the book was a ruse and didn’t have a chance of publication—at least not with my name on it—the manuscript’s contents must not have been closely examined by anyone in Support Services and Franklin’s beliefs had just fallen through the cracks.

  Now, though, having read Franklin’s manuscript and encountered his sharp-edged tone on the telephone, I couldn’t wait to meet him.

  CHAPTER 13

  Early the next morning, I jumped out of bed, grabbed my gun from the nightstand, and went in search of a perplexing sound—something like scratching—coming from the kitchen area.

  The noise, while faint in the master bedroom, increased in intensity the closer I got to the kitchen. Within a few seconds, though, I knew it wasn’t coming from the kitchen. It was coming from the patio.

  The puppy I’d seen chasing squirrels the day before was now at the patio doors scratching on the glass so vigorously I thought he might actually break it.

  I rapped my knuckles on the sliding doors.

  The startled animal looked up at me and then quickly ran back across the property.

  Why were dogs so appealing to some people?

  To me, this was one of life’s great mysteries.

  After my initial evaluation at Therapy in Motion, my assigned therapist, Kevin, showed me the program of conditioning exercises to strengthen my leg and make my limp less noticeable. Then, the receptionist set up appointments for me to come in the following week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

  As I left Therapy in Motion on 24th Street, I drove south to Lindsey Street and turned east toward the OU campus and my meeting with Paul Franklin. When I came to a red light at the intersection of Lindsey and McGee, I realized I was across from the Hollywood Shopping Center, where Kristi Stellars said Bethel Church was located.

  I looked to my left, and, about half a mile ahead, I could see a large building made of white stone. The front of the church was shaped like wedge, with a massive bell tower at its centermost point. The tower probably reached some 200 feet in the air. It was hard to miss, which made me wonder why I’d never noticed it when Danny and I had lived here before.

  A marquee-type sign identified the building, and then right below the church’s name there was a quotation. It said, “When in the Dark, Follow the Son.”

  I found myself smiling.

  However, when I pulled into a parking garage on the OU campus, I put on my game face, or rather my scholarly face. I had dressed appropriately for my role of Senior Fellow—brown dress pants, camel-colored sports coat, white button-down shirt, and brown loafers. As I walked across the campus to Overton Hall, where the International Studies program was housed, I felt certain I could be mistaken for a beloved professor.

  Most of the students going into Overton Hall were Caucasians. However, there was a smattering of Asians, Hispanics, and Arabs. The building was decorated with artwork from around the world and designed with lots of chrome and glass. It reminded me of an international corporation’s headquarters more than an academic building. I found the main office as soon as I entered the building, and the receptionist directed me to Franklin’s office on the third floor.

  As I approached the office, I overheard two Middle Eastern students arguing in Arabic over a missed rental payment. My senses went on alert, but they paid no attention to me as I approached the reception area.

  A heavyset woman with beads in her hair looked up from her computer and asked how she could help me.

  “I’m Titus Ray. I have an appointment with Professor Franklin at eleven o’clock.”

  She focused on her computer once again. “He has a student with him. Please take a seat.”

  Fifteen minutes later, a young Arab man with a Quran under his arm left Franklin’s office, and I was told to go in.

  Professor Franklin sat at his desk in the center of the room. Behind him was a bank of windows providing a sweeping view of the campus and the well-kept grounds. However, my eyes were immediately drawn to the man at the desk
rather than to the beautiful scenery behind it.

  As I gazed on Franklin’s expensive blue suit, which fit his thin, frame perfectly, I immediately realized I could have worn my Armani suit and not felt overdressed in the room with him. Franklin was at least in his sixties, with thick, silver-colored hair swept up and away from his high pale forehead. When he arose from the desk and moved forward to greet me, I wondered how many times someone had described him as a “distinguished-looking gentleman.”

  “Mr. Ray, I’m Dr. Paul Franklin.”

  He had a weak handshake.

  “I’m happy to meet you Professor. You can call me Titus, though.”

  “Let’s have a seat over here.”

  He indicated two upholstered chairs next to a wall of freestanding bookcases. The shelves were packed with numerous textbooks and journals on foreign relations, human rights, and international affairs. Interspersed among the books were distinctive souvenirs from around the world, plus several framed photographs of Paul Franklin with former Presidents and other recognizable dignitaries. There were also pictures of him with people I assumed to be family and friends. Not surprisingly, I spotted several copies of the Quran.

  As I was about to take a seat, Franklin said, “I don’t have much time. It’s nearing the end of the semester, and I’ve got exams to grade. Let’s make this quick.”

  Once again, I had the feeling Franklin was irritated with me. I decided to play the role of a gracious guest and charm him with my winsome personality.

  “I’m sure it must be a busy time, Professor. Would it be more convenient for us to meet in about three or four weeks?”

  He started walking back over to his desk. “Let me look at my calendar.”

  While I waited for him to find his calendar, I looked at some of his personal photographs. The most recent ones were candid shots of him playing with several small children—presumably, his grandkids.

  Displayed in a prominent position, however, was a framed portrait of Paul Franklin as a young man. It was obviously taken on his wedding day. His wife was extraordinarily beautiful, and I told him so when he came back over to the seating area with his appointment book.