by David Bishop
On a case-by-case basis, America will more closely scrutinize our prospective sales of military equipment. We will weigh the longer term benefits of destroying said weaponry as an alternative to the shorter-term benefits of selling it.
* * *
Ryan was about through his third reading of the doctrine when President Robert Wellington came back into the room.
“Sorry for the interruption.”
“No, problem, sir. I read your doctrine. If I may cut to the chase, I agree completely with its theme and all seven planks.”
“Which plank, if any, gave you the most pause?”
“Number seven, sir.”
“I expected that it would. Why?”
“Mr. President, not selling weaponry to other countries has surface appeal, if it could end there. However, Russia, China, and others often stand ready to fill those orders. Are we better off controlling those transactions and fully understanding the weaponry the buyers will receive, or by letting the tangential influence accrue to other countries that elect to step in and fill those orders?”
“The question’s easy. You’re right about that. It’s the answer that isn’t. To deny those sales shuts off the payments we receive for sales of weaponry. Those dollars then flow into other countries.”
“What’s the plan for your doctrine?”
The president uncrossed his legs. “That brings us to your mission.” He licked his lips. “Shall I explain?”
“Please do.”
“In broad strokes, I see two phases. In the first, you’ll present this doctrine to the principal European leaders for their support, and to learn the specifics of their reservations, if any. After that, you’ll brief me on what you’ve learned.”
“You’ll undertake phase two after the doctrine is finalized. At that time, you’ll deliver copies to the principal leaders of the Middle East. I’m expecting we’ll have endorsements and solid support for the doctrine from a cross-section of both European and Middle Eastern countries. During both phases, I want you to put forth in a straightforward manner that, with or without endorsements, this doctrine will be the backbone of America’s position and will guide its actions.
“I plan to call troops home and put an end to America’s involvement in what’s been going on in the Middle East these past decades. I will be a frugal president with America’s wealth, blood, and safety. The time’s come for the peoples of the Middle East to take responsibility for the shape and actions of their countries and region of the world.”
“The resulting shaking-out period could take quite some time.”
The president crossed his arms. “The Shia-Sunni tussle will play out peacefully or otherwise. That is for them to decide. We’ve been trying to direct that process for decades with minor, if any, success. Each side perceives that Allah is with them, thus they’re each driven by a similar sense of righteousness.”
“Does your doctrine extend to the Israel-Palestinian issues, Mr. President?”
“Absolutely, but with less clarity. Israel is our ally. The Palestinians need to decide if they want the world to see them as a responsible people or as terrorists. That goes for Hamas as well. The doctrine gives us some room to flex as it speaks to defending ourselves and our allies from terrorism and invasion by others.
“I’ve called the presidents or prime ministers of the major European powers and requested that my emissary, that’s you, be granted an immediate audience. From each I obtained a phrase to be inserted into the letter of introduction you’ll carry. This will assure them of its authenticity and your identity. For as long as possible, I want this under the radar. You’re to travel incognito.”
Ryan piggybacked on the president’s desire to obfuscate the mission by suggesting he travel with Linda Darby, and comport themselves as tourists. In each location, he would quietly weave his official duties within the fabric of their showy personal activities.
“I’ll leave that to you. What I need is for this to not become a political football any sooner than it inevitably will. If you think Ms. Darby is the way to do it, you’ve got more experience at this kind of thing than anyone I know. Proceed as you think best.”
“When do I leave, sir?”
“Let’s get into that over lunch.” The president stood. “I’ve arranged to have it served in my dining room. We’ll eat alone.”
The president led Ryan through his private study and into his dining room.
Chapter 6
A Week Later . . .
When their commercial flight touched the runway at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, France, Ryan had already visited with the leaders in England, The Netherlands, and Germany. Early on he’d decided against flying in and out of U. S. military bases. The use of the regular commercial airports maintained the image that he and Linda were on a pleasure trip.
President Wellington had instructed Ryan not to visit Israel as part of phase one. That visit would be part of the phase involving the principle Middle Eastern leaders. He believed holding off Israel until the Middle East leg would lessen the likelihood of other Middle Eastern powers postulating that the Jews were afforded the opportunity to participate in the crafting of the doctrine, while the Arabs and Persians were only informed of it.
This last leg of phase one, Ryan’s official visit with French leaders, would start the morning after their arrival. Later that afternoon, he and Linda planned a tourist visit to the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe. The next day, in addition to Ryan’s official duties, they would tour the world-class museums of Paris. The following morning was scheduled for their return to the White House.
* * *
The classic car show just outside Paris was a major draw each year. People came from all over Europe and beyond. The serious bidders mixed among those who came only to fantasize. All eyes tranced on the automobiles of their affections. Bidding was to begin the next day.
Off to the side, thirty yards or so from the star cars, two men leaned toward one another across a picnic table. The nearby area was crowded with dozens of secondary vintage vehicles waiting in the wings like understudies to playhouse stars.
The man facing toward the less glamorous vehicles said, “Over the past week, our operatives observed a man we learned was named Ryan Testler. He entered and, several hours later, left the Dutch intelligence agency. The MIVD is in Zoetermeer in the province of South Holland. That same day, Testler visited with the prime minister in The Hague. Two days later he spent the morning at 10 Downing Street in London. After a day of tourism in London he moved on to Germany and met with the chancellor. He arrived here in Paris this morning.”
“Is he traveling alone?”
“No. There is a woman. Her name is Linda Darby. She appears a few years his younger. We don’t know a lot about either of them but, our sources tell us, Testler is the personal emissary of U. S. President Robert Wellington. We think Ms. Darby is pure cover. Only Testler has entered the various houses of government. In each location, Testler has spent the preceding or following day with Ms. Darby being or acting as tourists. I have the exact dates and times as well as the locations of each of his meetings in each country. As far as we can ascertain, he has met with heads of state, chiefs of staff, and one or more leaders from each country’s intelligence community. Do you want these details?”
“That’s not necessary. Of greater importance, is there a possibility this Darby woman is doing other bidding while Testler is in these meetings? Do we have her under surveillance?”
“Yeah. Sure. She seems to only be along for cover and is nonessential to his mission. As for Testler, we have him under loose surveillance. He has the manner of a skilled agent. Knowing he is in these countries for his president and will meet with people of influence, allows some assumptions as he moves about. When we can reasonably assume his actions, we move ahead of him, lessening the possibility he’ll spot the surveillance.”
“Let me know if anything unexpected develops. Otherwise, I await your next scheduled report
. I’ll take this information to our client.”
The two men stood and walked away in opposite directions. The one having given the report stepped into a portable toilet positioned near a work shed. After latching the door, he tore the report he gave into small pieces and dropped it inside. After leaving the portable, he moved toward the crowd in the main auto viewing area.
* * *
Linda started her morning with a text to her daughter.
“Good morning, Steffi. If I’ve estimated the time difference correctly, you’re not awake yet. I’ve got the coffee brewing and, as usual, I’m missing you. I know you’ve got a full day of classes so reply when you can. No hurry. Say hi to Aunt Vera and Uncle Dix for me. Today, Ryan and I are going to visit the Eiffel Tower. We got to Paris yesterday and could be here two more days. I’m not sure. He’s mixing some business in with our sightseeing. After that we’ll head back to the States. More later. I just wanted to text to say have a good day. Love, Mom.”
Linda missed her daughter, missed her friends, her hometown in Kansas, and her beach-house in Sea Crest, Oregon. In the future, the plan was to spend summers there. Despite her longings, she was halfway around the world in the middle of, or maybe on the periphery of, something about which she knew very little. Whatever it was, it was dicey. That much was a given. If Ryan Testler was involved, dicey probably underdescribed what was going on.
The man brought energy and passion into her life. He also brought fear and challenge, along with a sense of achievement. She quietly wished he would settle down and get out of the hairy things in which he seemed always to be engaged. In fairness, he had invited her to accompany him, and she had decided to come along.
It’s exciting. It’s scary.
He hadn’t told her everything. He couldn’t. Or so he said. He talked about the trip as an adventure. He was there on government business. She was part of his cover, an all-expense paid tourist trip to Europe. He said the mission was low-risk. Of course, things Ryan Testler considered low risk would scare the begeebees out of most people.
Ryan was always tan with his blue eyes recessed behind eyelashes most women would do anything to have for their own.
Other than Ryan, Linda’s life was mostly a dull existence. Not unpleasant or unhappy, but, yeah, dull. She believed what she was doing with him had meaning and purpose beyond the ho-hum of just dealing with the tasks of another day.
Ryan rocked her world and she was honest enough to admit she loved to be rocked. At times, she wondered if she was glad or sad to know him, to be involved with him. Her point of view on that shifted from one to the other. Right now, she was glad. Heck, who can complain about an all-expense paid visit to Paris, not to mention England, Germany, and The Netherlands? If, someday, he gave up his larger-than-life existence, she would be overwhelmed with happiness. She doubted that men like Ryan, who lived on the hard edge of life, could ever be happy in the softer center.
Chapter 7
The hairs on the back of Ryan Testler’s neck, coupled with a sixth sense developed through staying alive, operated like the pulse on the gadgets restaurants give out to alert you when your table is ready. Eyes were on him. That much he knew. His built-in pulser was unable to identify which person among the many behind was the follower.
He stepped off the curb to cross the Rue de l’Elysée, a short distance from the U.S. Embassy on Avenue Gabriel, in Paris. He timed his pace to get to the corner just after the light changed to red. He stopped abruptly and waited at the curb. The row of cars to his left began accelerating slowly to make right turns around the curb in front of him. One of the vehicles, a dark Mercedes he’d noticed several times, eased along the curb to pass in front of him. As it did, Ryan suddenly stepped off the curb.
The tires of the Mercedes were in the gutter when the driver slammed on his brakes. Ryan leaned down, looked into the car, and touched his chest. “My bad.” While doing so, he used the reflection in the rear passenger side window to notice one man, about fifteen steps behind, suddenly stop while the other pedestrians near him continued their march toward the intersection.
Okay, I gotcha.
The man was in his mid-thirties, without a tie or jacket, dressed in American business casual. He wore reflective sunglasses and had a full head of dark hair. The swarthy man, who sported a small mustache, appeared to be a middle easterner. This alone was not alarming. Roughly eight percent of France’s population was Muslim from North Africa and the Middle East. Ryan looked away just as the man’s eyes rotated from the Mercedes back to Ryan.
The Mercedes completed its turn. Ryan imagined his follower held his distance waiting for him to move. When the light was about to change, at the last minute, Ryan sprinted off the curb just ahead of the traffic coming on the cross street. He smiled to himself as he skipped up to the sidewalk on the other side of the intersection.
Okay, bucko. The game’s on.
The flow of cars coming through the intersection prevented his follower from crossing before the next green light.
Ryan would shake free of the tail and then turn the tables by following the follower. Or return to Linda Darby in their suite at the Paris Marriott Champs Elysée.
In his next glance, Ryan confirmed the follower was crossing the street. His attention focused on weaving through the other pedestrians to gain pace without looking too rushed. The man’s gait matched Ryan’s, and, as far as he could tell, the guy hadn’t glanced or signaled to another pedestrian or toward an automobile.
You and the dude in the Mercedes.
Ryan paused at an angled storefront window offering modest reflective capability. His follower was more than half of block back, holding to a pace that maintained the distance between them.
Ryan continued this me-and-my-shadow routine for two more blocks, then sharply turned into a hotel he’d not been in for several years. The hotel was nothing extravagant, but not a dive by any measure. Its plush cocktail lounge had low lights, soft music, and cushy booths. The room was crowded with middle-aged and older men sharing drinks and hors d'oeuvres with women young enough to be politely described as their daughters or nieces, without being dressed as daughters or nieces.
Ryan walked through the lounge and down the hall toward the men’s room. Suddenly, he darted through a server’s swinging door into the kitchen. He spun around and steadied the swing out of the door while using the small plastic window in the door to look back into the lounge. When he saw his follower step inside, Ryan went up to the cook and handed him a U.S. fifty-dollar bill. “I was not here.”
“Je n’étais pas lá”
Ryan rapidly circled around to the street that fronted the hotel, took a position in a retail store on an angle across from the hotel, and waited.
Ten minutes later, the swarthy man emerged, his eyes darting up and down the sidewalk. The man leaned against the wall and made a cell call. He was just under six feet and weighed something near two-hundred pounds. His waist was small and, based on the way he held his phone, his hands were large. His well-muscled thigh spread when he put his right foot up against the wall behind him.
This has to be related to my mission for the president. Do they know about Linda? Are they tailing her?
Not long after the man closed his phone, a dark Mercedes pulled to the curb. The follower leveraged himself from the wall, crossed the sidewalk, got into the Mercedes, and was gone. From his location, Ryan couldn’t see the license plate, but he was sure it was the same car with dark tinted windows that had turned in front of him earlier at the street corner. Without immediate access to a car, Ryan couldn’t follow his follower. He walked to the corner and, other than periodically checking to see if he picked up a fresh tail, headed in the direction of the hotel where Linda waited.
Chapter 8
Faraj Arafa stopped at the corner grocery and picked up a package of Oreo cookies, a bag of seedless green grapes, and a six-pack of soda and another of beer. Before leaving the store he turned up his collar to ward off the chilly bree
ze, and zipped up his windbreaker partway to stop the wind from slapping it around as he walked.
Faraj occasionally ran errands for Dorothy Mitchum who lived in a condo two buildings from the small courtyard cluster where he lived. She had asked him to pick up these items and drop them off sometime before noon.
“Thank you, Faraj.” Dorothy stood aside and let her young friend carry the groceries into the kitchen. On the way, Dorothy’s pet red canary, she called Red, chattered at Faraj. He set the bags down and emptied them onto the counter. One of the items was a cuttlebone which he attached to the side of Red’s cage. The bird hopped to the nearest roost and then jumped to where the cuttlebone was suspended. Gripping the side of the cage next to the cuttlebone, Red began pecking at it.
“I’ve got a fresh pot of hibiscus tea, made with the dried flowers the way you showed me.” She pointed to a coffee cake cooling on a wire rack. “It’s too much for me. Sit down and I’ll cut us some.”
“Thank you.” Faraj sat and took a sip. “The tea is wonderful. Tonight’s your Brainiac night, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Have I told you about the group?”
“A little bit. I saw one of them, an older man two weeks ago. He came out of the elevator just as I headed down the stairs. I watched him go to your door and knock. When you answered your voice was cheerful. I decided he wasn’t a threat to you, so I went on down the stairs and back to my place. That was the correct use of the contraction isn’t—tonight’s your Brainiac night, isn’t it? I still struggle sometimes with the way Americans use contractions.”