Heart Strike

by David Bishop

  “Not so fast. Have you gotten approval for all that I require?”

  “I reported your demands. They agreed with the understanding that if you didn’t deliver our cost would drop to one bullet. I offered to provide the bullet.”

  “You like this, don’t you? Toying with me? Prodding me with that little shit-eating grin of yours.”

  “You knew what I thought of you before you contacted me. Putting one between your eyes would come close to being a pleasure. I’m half hoping you can’t deliver on your promise. Still, if you’ve got what you say you’ve got, I’ll deal with my personal disappointment.”

  Benoit wiped a hand over his mouth, then over his pant leg. He took a drink of water.

  “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” Testler shook off the banker’s offer of water from the same pitcher. “Just come out through the door of your bank at exactly 10:45 in the morning. Be sure of the time. Use an atomic clock. My two guys’ll grab you. Both will wear brown suits with light tan ties. A couple more will be close by.”

  “I’ll recognize you.”

  “I won’t be there.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Unimportant. The two men will be better at this than I am. They’ll get you to the States. I’ll see you there in a couple of days.”

  “I expected you to be there … at the bank I mean.”

  Testler turned off the lamp near the couch, leaving only the light from the open door to the bathroom. “Life has its disappointments. You were wrong. Look, you need asylum. If you trusted me enough to come to me then you’ll have to trust me to get it done right. We’re just as interested in keeping you alive as you are. Well, maybe not as much, but enough for us to see that you do.”

  At the door, Testler turned off the unit’s porchlight. He shook hands with Benoit holding the Frenchman’s hand for about ten seconds, during which time Testler kept his eyes closed. He released the Frenchman’s hand, patted him on the shoulder, and opened the door. He immediately stepped outside and closed the door behind him, walling Benoit off inside the room.

  * * *

  Linda startled when her hotel room door opened suddenly. “You said you’d be gone all night.”

  Ryan went to Linda. “I said, ‘I could be gone all night.’ It was unlikely. I wanted you prepared if that’s how it went down.”

  “Did everything go okay? Whatever everything was.”

  “Nice and easy.”

  “You look tired.”

  “Very. I have to go out again.”

  “What? Why?”

  “There’s something I must do before I meet with the French officials in the morning.”

  “It’s late. Can’t you sleep for a while first?”

  “There’s no time for sleep on a battlefield.”

  “This isn’t a battlefield.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “You told me you’re not a regular government agent, what exactly … do you do?”

  “I’m probably quoting somebody. ‘The most dishonorable work that can be done honorably’.”

  “I don’t understand. … I guess that doesn’t matter. Are you hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  “I called in room service. I ordered a burger and fries for you, just in case. It’s all cold, but the beer in the mini-fridge is colder. Sit down. I’ll get it for you.”

  Chapter 16

  By eleven o’clock Testler was outside the modest residence of Claude Robin, one of the men on the short list Benoit gave him. The one who ordered Ryan and Linda followed.

  Robin’s house was on a quiet residential street in a part of town pocked with old everything, yet still neat and orderly. After a brief reconnoiter, Ryan confirmed what Benoit told him. Robin lived alone. Nothing in the yard indicated children. A quick look through the garage window confirmed only one car. Testler slipped thin, pliable gloves over his hands.

  By ten after eleven, Testler was inside and familiar with the layout of the rooms. There was no security in place—Robin felt safe. Testler located a wall safe behind a picture on the wall just beyond the desk in a small study off the master bedroom. He found and removed a gun from the desk and another from the nightstand beside Robin’s bed.

  At twenty-three after eleven, Testler stood beside the sleeping Frenchman whose mouth gaped open to release erratic snores. Testler used the barrel of his gun to knock on the man’s teeth, gently, but firmly.

  Robin stirred. When he opened his mouth, Testler pushed the noise suppressor on the end of the barrel inside, deep enough to prevent Robin from jerking his head to get free of it.

  The not-fully-awake Robin gagged, then instinctively gripped the barrel with his lips as if it were a long forgotten memory of his mother.

  He awoke wide eyed.

  “If you move, you die.”

  Robin’s French forehead wrinkled.

  “Which is it going to be, die or cooperate?”

  The man’s head rose a few inches, then collapsed back onto his pillow. He blinked furiously. His head nodded in short spastic jerks.

  Testler removed the gun from his mouth and jammed it into the soft wattle below his chin.

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “It’s late and I’m sure you’d like to get back to sleep, so let’s skip the get-acquainted chitchat. I want the films and any related documents you have regarding Mademoiselle Lefebvre, including her involvement with the two women you set her up with, and the flats you arranged for each of the two.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “One guess what this is.” Testler jammed a short flexible hose in front of the man’s nose.

  “That’s gasoline. What—”

  “That’s right. Gasoline. The world over, an aroma more recognizable than Chanel No. 5.” Testler extended the short hose and tipped the small can until about a cupful poured onto the blankets over Robin’s groin. “You have one minute to open the safe behind your desk in the study. If you don’t, I’ll ignite this little starter kit, wait a few minutes, and, when I tire of hearing you scream, I’ll shoot you in the head.”

  Robin began to get up.

  “Put on your slippers. I’d hate to be responsible for you catching a cold.”

  By eleven-forty-one, the man was spinning the dial on the combination lock. When it opened, Testler yanked him back and shined a flashlight into the safe. He reached in and took out the third gun he’d found on the premises. “I’d say you’re quite infatuated with guns. Now clean out the other contents and put them on the desk.”

  Robin extracted a metal container the size of a shoebox and handed it toward Testler. When Testler pointed toward the desk, Robin put the box on the desk blotter. “That’s everything involving Mademoiselle Lefebvre.” He left a second, matching container in the safe.

  “Get out the other one and the big envelope under it.”

  “Those are just personal papers. None of which involves Lefebvre.”

  Testler waggled the gun impatiently.

  Robin paused for a long moment, then took out the second container, setting it on the desk. He reached back into the safe and removed the large tan envelope, extending the hand holding it toward Testler, who didn’t take it. After a long moment, Robin put it on top of the second container. “That empties the safe.”

  “No it doesn’t. What else is in there?”

  Robin pulled out some bundled cash, American dollars, and a stack of stock certificates.

  “Give me the cash and put the securities back in the safe.”

  Robin put the cash beside the container and did what he was told with the securities.

  Testler thumped the metal box with his index finger. “Is this everything you have on the mademoiselle?”

  “Oui. I have nothing else.”

  “If anytime later I learn there are copies of any of this and you haven’t been, as your countrymen say, ‘un homme de parole.’ I will return and kill you with only the gasoline.
The burn-and-bullet is a kindness offered only for tonight.”

  “There is nothing further. I swear. Nothing else and no copies.” He pointed toward the second metal container he removed from the safe. “That one has nothing to do with her.”

  Testler opened the first container to see two film cassettes. He folded the envelope, put it inside, added the cash, closed the box, and set it on top of the first one.

  “Is that all you want?”

  “Yes.” Testler nodded. “Let me escort you back to bed to be sure you get there safely. I certainly don’t want any dissatisfied customers.”

  Robin walked through the connecting door. He stopped at the edge of the bed, his face white from fear.

  Testler stood ten feet away, his arms crossed, his gun dangling casually from his hand. “Get into bed.”

  Robin climbed in, pulled the covers up under his chin and quaked.

  “We need to discuss your ordering a tail on Linda Darby.”

  Robin shook his head. “I instructed that no harm was to come to Mademoiselle Darby.”

  Testler stepped to the edge of the bed’s footboard.

  Robin eyes followed his intruder’s every move.

  Testler looked at the Frenchman, and shot him in the head.

  You chose to profit from this slice of the world. The prospect of a violent end came with it. I can’t have you reporting my visit.

  Testler took a picture of Robin dead, set the gasoline can on the floor beside the bed, and left the bedroom.

  He returned to the study where he locked the safe with the securities inside. He picked up both containers from the desktop. Testler would decide later what to do, if anything, with the contents of the second container.

  At two minutes after midnight, Testler quietly left the wealthy Frenchman’s understated home, leaving behind the bullet in Robin’s brain and his soiled bedding.

  Chapter 17

  The next morning, after stopping for nearly two hours in the CIA room at the U.S. Embassy, Ryan Testler parked alongside Paris’s Boulevard Mortier, and began walking toward the office of France's Directorate-General for External Security (DGSE), an agency within France’s Ministry of Defence—as they spelled it.

  Inside, he approached the front desk. “I’d like to immediately speak with the administrative assistant for Mademoiselle Lefebvre.” After modest resistance, the receptionist gave him a house phone and put his call through.

  “I’m sorry, sir, Deputy Director Lefebvre has a meeting in a matter of minutes. She cannot take your call.” The male assistant, continued. “Please give me your name and number and a brief description of the purpose of your call.”

  “The meeting to which you refer is one with her boss and an emissary from U.S. President Robert Wellington, a meeting scheduled to begin in less than a half an hour.”

  “That meeting is not common knowledge, sir.” The assistant’s words were measured and paced. “How it is that you are aware?”

  “Because I am the emissary of the President of the United States.”

  The assistant cleared his throat. “One moment, please.”

  Testler waited on hold for a minute before he heard, “To whom am I speaking?”

  “Is this Mademoiselle Lefebvre?”

  “Yes. And you are?”

  Testler stated the code phrase that was included in President Wellington’s note to the French president.

  “I’ll be right out.”

  “Thank you, I’ll wait.”

  Three minutes later, Testler was sitting in a small conference room, alone with Mademoiselle Lefebvre.

  She shook his hand. “Given the meeting we will both attend in a few minutes, your request for this earlier chat seems … irregular.”

  “It’s necessary because we both will not be attending the meeting.”

  “Oh? Please explain.”

  “You will not be there.”

  “Sir?”

  “You are to get up and leave. Now. Go home and prepare your letter of resignation, effective immediately. Have the letter couriered to Director Vie. You are never to return to your office or any part of the French government.”

  “Just who the hell do you think you are? And why would I do that?”

  Testler’s chest pressed against the round edge of the table as he leaned forward and slid a picture toward the mademoiselle—a picture from among the documents taken out of Robin’s safe. It showed the mademoiselle entangled with one of the two lesbian women Claude Robin funded for her.

  Mademoiselle Lefebvre shoved the picture back toward Testler, hard enough that it somehow turned upside down. “This picture unquestionably reveals my sexual orientation. If released it would be embarrassing. Such things are seen somewhat differently in France than in the United States. As a basic for your demand that I resign, it’s laughable.”

  Testler slid over a second picture. This one showing Mademoiselle Lefebvre meeting with a lawyer. “As you’re well aware, your own intelligence agency is of the opinion this lawyer fronts for ISIS in France.” When she looked down, her brow furrowed. She narrowed her eyes and looked up.

  Without speaking, Testler dropped a page containing part of the conversation that occurred between her and the lawyer fronting for ISIS. Their discussion included what information ISIS wanted, and the amount of money they would direct to her Swiss bank account in return. Testler showed her two more pictures of her meeting with the agent for ISIS.

  Testler dropped a video tape on top of the page. “In this film, you’re nodding your head in agreement and smiling. A routine lip reading will match what you said to the conversation I took the liberty to print; that’s in front of you.” Ryan poked the printed page with his index finger. He then added a third picture, one showing Claude Robin dead in his bed.

  “I know of your betrayal of France. If you meet my demands, what I know will go no further. You are to immediately do as I demand. You are to never return to public office. You will refuse all requests for public appearances and interviews from any media. You are not to author a book or otherwise circumvent this order. If you fully satisfy these demands, only you and I will have copies of—” Testler waved the back of his hand at the items on the small conference table. “You will retain the millions in that Swiss account.” If you do anything other than precisely what I have demanded, all this will be delivered to your government and the major media outlets of France and the world. Copies will also be provided to ISIS.”

  “But I can’t just …” She never finished.

  “Your choices are to resign due to vague health issues or die. If this is disclosed, I won’t hazard a guess as to the response from ISIS. I leave that to your imagination.”

  * * *-

  Testler entered a room already occupied by France’s Director Vie of the DGSE, and Deputy Director Mautaint, who headed up the Ministry’s Action Division. Mautaint was an average sized man with much more than an average amount of hair. It stood up from his head the way hair hangs loose from the undercarriage of a groomed collie.

  The two men stood. Testler introduced himself.

  Vie was the taller of the two with a puffy face. His nose discolored from rosacea. “Welcome to France, Mr. Testler. We’re waiting for one other person from my agency. While we wait, I can offer you some coffee.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Vie. However, if you mean Mademoiselle Lefebvre, she will not be attending.”

  The two men exchanged perplexed glances before both stared at Testler. Director Vie’s cheeks puffed enough to give his eyes the look of shooting slits in a defensive wall.

  “She’s resigned, Director Vie, effectively immediately. You’ll get her letter in the morning. She left the building a few minutes ago. She’s headed for her home.”

  “What? How would you know that? She wouldn’t just—”

  “She has.”

  Deputy Mautaint, seated to the left of Director Vie, put up his hand. “Why?”

  Testler slid a tape across the table. “This’ll le
t you hear it in her own voice.” He added the pictures. “Perhaps you should take a few minutes to view the audiovisual and these stills before we continue.”

  Deputy Mautaint, turned off the tape. He slouched in his chair, then looked at his boss. They both looked at Testler until Director Vie spoke.

  “I don’t understand. Mademoiselle Lefebvre has achieved a great deal. She has a bright future. Her carrying on with a couple of women would have caused a modest scandal, but nothing like what it would in the U.S. The seriousness of this is her selling classified information to Daesh, ah, what you Americans call ISIS. … I guess in the intelligence community, nothing is supposed to be a shock … this is. I’ve known Lefebvre for two decades.”

  Vie and Mautaint read the final version of The Wellington Doctrine. For the next two hours, the three men discussed and debated its seven planks.

  “I understand you have already spoken with our counterparts in The Netherlands, Germany, and England.”

  Testler nodded. “That’s correct.”

  Deputy Mautaint smiled. “With apology to Peter Ustinov for altering his quote, ‘I imagine that hell is Dutch punctuality, German humor, and English wine’. Within the last week, you’ve endured all three.”

  The men shared a nervous laugh.

  Vie’s expression morphed into serious. “To quote your country’s great President Abraham Lincoln, ‘Be sure you put your feet in the right place, then stand firm’.”

  Testler crossed his arms. “And your country’s Maximillian Robespierre is famous for, ‘The secret to freedom lies in educating people, whereas the secret to tyranny is in keeping them ignorant.’ This doctrine will educate people.”

  “Does President Wellington believe he has put America’s feet in the correct position?”

  “Yes, Deputy Mautaint. He is ready to stand firm.”

  Director Vie stood and extended his hand. “Please tell your president I will recommend to my president that France stand with America. Having said that, President Wellington must remain sensitive to France’s situation. Our endorsement will only come after your country publicly announces this doctrine. And subject to there being no change in its content, unless we read and approve any revision.”