Heart Strike

by David Bishop

  “Apparently, you learned a great deal of that by watching me, and surreptitiously entering my home. Not to mention the time we’ve spent together now and again over these past couple of years.”

  “As you know, my surveilling you was all related to my work for Webster, before I developed my personal interest in you. That was how I learned about your daughter, Stephanie.”

  “Back then you never told me you knew about Steffi.”

  “That was your personal life. You would tell me if and when you chose to.”

  “You’re a strange man, Ryan Testler. A conundrum packed with contradictions.”

  “I confess to that.” He put his hand in her hair. “But only to you.”

  “Do you regret anything?”

  Ryan lowered his eyes, his lips curling into something akin to a smirk. “Life can’t be lived in reverse. If we could go back, which of us, at certain junctures, wouldn’t take a different path?”

  She raised their joined hands and kissed the back of his. “Amen to that.”

  They walked awhile in silence, their eyes moving from the surf, to the sky, to an occasional gull screaming down at them—at something. He put his arm around her shoulders. It made them walk slower. They were in no hurry.

  Ryan turned to her moonlit face. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Sure.” Linda stopped and turned Ryan to face her. “What’s going to happen after the president’s speech tomorrow night?”

  “I’ll know when we hear it.”

  “But you said you didn’t expect him to mention his doctrine. So, how’ll you know?”

  “I know the man. We’ve talked alone for hundreds of hours. Most of it years ago in Saudi Arabia when he was ambassador and I was CIA station chief. I see him without looking through the gauze of politics.”

  They angled their walk slightly into a sea busy curling around to rejoin itself.

  “You ready to go back to my place?”

  “The sun won’t be up for at least two more hours.”

  “I need to change clothes.”

  “Right now?”

  “You said you wanted to see me in something I might wear when I plan to seduce a man.”

  Chapter 25

  Faraj rode his moped into the Kenilworth Park and Aquatic Gardens. His training films, watched numerous times before he came to America, made him fully familiar with the location for this drop. When Kenilworth was designated, as it was this time, his orders would be found under the boardwalk bridge that meandered through the Kenilworth Marsh.

  He casually strolled to the location of the third support beam and leaned his forearms on the railing. There, he watched the reeds and wildlife. When no people were in sight, he dropped flat onto the boardwalk, lower than the height of the close marsh growth. From that out-of-sight position, he reached out and back under the walkway. His hand found a flat container attached there with Velcro. He grasped it firmly and pulled it free. He rolled over, stuffed it inside his partially zipped windbreaker, and stood up again.

  The waterproof envelope felt flat enough to almost be empty, but he knew it wouldn’t be. To the contrary, that envelope, stiff against his heart, would contain orders that would forever change his life and, probably, the lives of many others. Desperate to discover what was expected of him, his body shook from fighting off the desire to rip it open and read what he was being ordered to do. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not yet. Unsure when his momentary privacy would expire, he needed to find a more lasting privacy.

  A moderate rain began before he got back to his moped. He reached inside his windbreaker and freed the hood of his sweatshirt, pulled it up to cover his head, and zipped his windbreaker to his neck. The moped rose to the command of the ignition key. His hand guided it out of the park, onto the road, and toward his home. His mind was so occupied he didn’t acknowledge the puddles passing cars splashed at his moped, soaking his shoes and socks.

  What I have feared most is upon me.

  Chapter 26

  The early sun glistened in the morning fog, giving the sand outside Linda’s beach house the look of a glazed sheet cake.

  Ryan was still asleep. Linda got a first cup of coffee and watched the dew weep down the window pane. By the end of her second cup, the fog had slid away. The rain eased into more mist than drops. She pulled on a sweatshirt, grabbed a hat, and ventured out. It was chilly, but not cold, not with her leggings and broad-brimmed hat doing their jobs. She usually jogged around this time, but for some reason that held no appeal today.

  After a while, the air warmed or maybe it was just her body. She pushed the hat off to hang against her back, suspended by its cowboyish chin strap. The rain gently wet her hair. The air tasted cool and salty. She loved this time of the morning at the beach. The early day was quiet. The holler of each wave descending into a whisper, its last thrust dissolving into foamy bubbles slowing and circling before racing back deep to recharge for another beachhead assault. It was her time to think, and her thoughts quickly coalesced around Ryan.

  They had made love last night on this very beach. Her on top, the glorious night breeze rustling her hair. Yet, with each slide up and slide down she felt him slipping away. It was nothing he said, nothing she said. Just the blunt collision of what he wanted, what she believed he wanted, against the quiet life she believed she wanted.

  You are my love, my fascination, and the source of my fears.

  When she got back to the house, Ryan was up. She slipped out of her wet sweats and showered. When she went for a towel, Ryan stood in front of the cabinet with a large towel draped over his hands. He put it over her head and began drying her hair.

  When he finished toweling her, she went into the bedroom and put on a pair of shorts and a fleece shirt and headed to the kitchen for a third cup of coffee, this one more to hold than to drink.

  Ryan joined her with the strap of his packed travel bag over his shoulder, he hefted the bag onto the counter.

  Linda was at the sink, her hands under the faucet. She turned off the water.

  He took her in his arms. “I’ll be back. Of course, when I can’t say. I’ll check in with you here or in Caruthers so I’ll know where to come.”

  “Ryan, baby, what’s the end game for us?”

  “I don’t know. At this point all I know is I expect to receive orders. I expect they’ll include a second visit to the leaders in The Netherlands, Germany, England, and France. And possibly a visit to the leaders of several Middle Eastern countries. Those decisions are above my pay grade.”

  Linda dried her hands on a dish towel. “I understand all that. Really. I do. But … I was asking longer term. After your phase two for President Wellington. Next year. Somewhere out there. Where will we be?”

  “I … don’t know. I don’t have time. I don’t have answers. What I need is to go.”

  “Please. I don’t know when I’ll see you. I need something.”

  “All I can tell you right now is I don’t know when all this kind of stuff will end for me. For that matter, if it will ever end. This is what I do. This is pretty much all I know how to do—well.”

  “You’re a really talented guy.”

  “Sure. At what? I figure shit out. I stop things that shouldn’t be going on. I couldn’t be a cop, even a private one. Those jobs have too many rules for a man like me. I pursue what’ll work, not what’s legal. I just get it done. I don’t have the patience to drag resolution out months or years just to satisfy some legal process. I cut through all that and get to the quick of it.”

  “I understand. No one does it better. But, what can I count on?”

  Ryan leaned his forearm on his bag. “Look. I’ll rarely be able to tell you where I’m going or what I’ll be doing. … I won’t lie to you, not ever. I’m never going to be a man you can walk with down Main Street waving and chatting with the neighbors, or go shopping for a new kitchen set, file tax returns explaining where I get my money. If that’s what you want, I don’t have the makeup.
Dix, in Caruthers, would have been that kind of guy. He’s a good man and plays everything straight. It’s in his DNA, not in mine.”

  Linda sipped her still lukewarm coffee. “But Dix married Vera and they’re a wonderful couple.”

  Ryan nodded slowly. “Yeah. For sure.”

  She tossed the dishcloth onto the kitchen counter near the stove.

  “Maybe if you find another Dix you need to develop that relationship.”

  “No. You’re my man. … Last night on the beach you questioned whether what you do really changes much of anything in the big picture. I felt your frustration. I guess it got my hopes up. That, maybe, you were close to, I don’t know, hanging it up I guess.”

  “Exhaustion gets to me now and then, more mental, but physical, too. Gets to everybody. Makes us all question our choice of careers, our families … everything. For me, last night was one of those moments. I shouldn’t have put that on you.”

  “Horse feathers. I love you, Ryan Testler. I want you to share those things. Otherwise, I can’t understand. I can’t help. I want to be with you. But I wanna know you’ll come back from work in one piece, even when I don’t know when that’ll be.”

  “I know, baby. We can’t figure this all out now. I gotta go.”

  Ryan kissed her, hefted his bag, and walked out the door.

  Chapter 27

  Ryan got up early in The Hay-Adams Hotel. He had his hand on the knob of the door, about to go downstairs to meet the White House limo, when his private cell rang.

  “Hello.”

  The caller offered no identification. The voice was female. “Several months ago,” she began, “we met in a bar in Syria and went to my room.”

  “No,” Ryan countered. “We sat near one another at the hotel bar in Damascus and later you appeared in my room.”

  “Almost correct,” she replied. “The hotel bar was in Aleppo, not Damascus.”

  The caller was Jewel Selinger, her formal name, Adi Selinger, a Mossad agent.

  “I’m due at a meeting and pinched for time.”

  “I’m aware of that meeting and your travel plans after it. I’m calling to share a few things so let me get right to it. First, the Iranians are aware of your mission and, because they are well connected in France, they have a copy of the document you left with the French government. My agency has a copy of the later version you will carry with you when you leave today to visit my part of the world. I can’t say with certainty that my agency has passed it up to my government, but I imagine they have. From what our people in the U.S. tell us, you will soon be formally delivering it to our government. My boss, the one you met with in the Mediterranean during your extraction last year, will speak in support of the document. I thought you should know these things.”

  “Thank you. Where are you now?”

  “On the transport that picked you up on your return from Syria last year. I’ll be going back ashore in a few hours.”

  “Thank you for this. I appreciate knowing it. Stay well.”

  “Before you go, I was asked to tell you hello from a man you’ll recognize under the codename Fargo. He’s well and working with us toward a common solution.”

  “I’d like to know more about that common solution. Can we talk again when we have more time?”

  “Definitely, but neither of us know when that’ll be.”

  “You’re in-country, so I’ll leave the contact to you. Call when you can.”

  They hung up and Ryan dashed for the door.

  * * *

  The limousine dropped Ryan outside the entrance to the West Wing of the White House. This entrance door was opened by one of the sentry marines who works half-hour-on and half-hour-off shifts at the door to the West Wing. Inside, he was met by the same Secret Service Officer who escorted Ryan to his last visit. He accompanied Ryan through the corridors to the Oval Office and opened the door for him.

  President Wellington sat at the Resolute desk.

  “How was your respite with Ms. Darby?”

  “Wonderful, sir.”

  “Are you rested?”

  “Enough, sir.”

  “Good. You leave later today. Israel is your first stop. The others are on the enclosed itinerary.” He handed Ryan a soft leather-covered portfolio. “It contains copies of the doctrine in its final form, and the letters I sent to each of the leaders of the Middle East countries you’ll visit. Unless you have something we need to discuss, you can get on your way with my sincere gratitude.”

  “I do, sir. Something else came to my attention only this morning.”

  President Wellington looked up from the papers in front of him. “Oh?” He put down his mechanical pencil and loosened the knot in his tie. “Let’s have it.” He picked up a glass of water and, absentmindedly, ran his finger over the etching: West Wing.

  Ryan told him of the call from Jewel Selinger and that he learned Iran has a copy of the first version of The Wellington Doctrine. Israel possessed a copy of the final version the president just handed Ryan.

  Wellington smiled and shook his head. “The Israeli government has many friends in this town, hell, in this very building. That they have it so quickly is disconcerting but not surprising. You’ll be giving it to them in a matter of hours, so no real harm done. I finalized it less than twenty-four hours ago.” The president leaned back in his chair. “Anything else?”

  “Sir, may I ask a question?”

  President Wellington extended his open hand, palm up. “Of course.”

  “The contact I spoke to this morning about the doctrine mentioned an effort the Mossad is behind to put together a coalition in Syria to get things resolved in that country, including establishing a government friendly to our interests. I’m sure you agree that’s most encouraging, but it’s also most amazing. What can you tell me?”

  “First, a little background.” He picked up a thin packet of paper. “The CIA put this together from their most recent World Fact Book, which they constantly amend for the ever-changing environment in Syria. The ruling Assad family are Alawite Shia. In total, the Shia in Syria are estimated at 12% of the population. The Alawite Shia share the core beliefs of the Twelvers sect of Shia that rule Iran and constitute the majority in Iraq.”

  The president paused to further scan the information before him. “Christians are nearly 10% of Syria’s population. The Druze are 3%, so together the Christians and Druze are greater in number than the ruling Alawites. The Syrian population is about 75% Sunni, which, on strictly religious grounds, aligns it closer to Saudi Arabia than to Iran. This percentages with this data total 100%, but there are other factions and sects much smaller in number. The Sevener Shia constitute about 1% of Syria’s population. Another 5% of the population are identified as Assyrians, Turkmen, and Kurds, which are lumped in with the 75% Sunni. These percentages are more representative of the mix than they are of mathematical accuracy.”

  When the president paused, Ryan interjected, “Syria has lost a huge portion of its total population due to the hordes of refugees fleeing the country.”

  “You got that right. Our intel suggests the flight of refuges has dropped the country’s population about 20% over the last several years so this is more evidence of the roughness of these population measures. That mixed 5% along with the two million Christians and six-hundred-thousand Druze represent a solid start on half of Syria’s current population.”

  “If the refugees fleeing have been somewhat consistent across the various sects.”

  The president nodded. “This is all the numbers we have, that anyone has. The population, hell, everything about Syria, is fluid.” The president turned back to the front page. “The current population is estimated to be around eighteen million.”

  “That’s a lot of suffering by a lot of people. I hope the people will wake up and turn on all their leaders and scream enough is enough.”

  “The Druze have recognized Israel, and Israel has agreed to protect the Druze in Syria in the event Assad goes after them.
A large number of Druze live in Israel, many of whom serve in the Israeli armed forces.”

  “I know the least about the Druze, Mr. President.”

  “I just had a briefing on the Druze the day before yesterday. Druze are neither Muslim nor Christian. Their holy book is neither the Bible nor the Koran, but the Epistles of Wisdom which were, in part, influenced by Plato and Socrates. According to the briefing, their Epistles may only be read by their religious leaders. They are a cloistered religion. Children can’t be Druze unless both the mother and the father are Druze. Mixed marriages are all but unheard of. The important point is Druze are neither Sunni nor Shia and are comfortable with Christians and the right of Israel to exist. That’s a start.”

  “From what I was told, Mr. President, and a good measure of reading between the lines, the goal of this effort is to somehow force an internationally monitored election within Syria with the objective of establishing a winning coalition.”

  The president bobbed and weaved his shoulders. “Somehow, yes, through ballots or bullets. It’s a long-term wish, but nothing in that part of the world is predictable and nothing happens quickly, so who the hell knows what this effort will lead to, if anything. Nonetheless, the effort is good in a country where it’s hard to find much of anything one can call good.”

  “True, true, sir.”

  “Ryan, I’m sorry this mission has, to some degree, brought you out of the shadows. But … seeing it has, I’d like to talk with you again about taking on a more visible role in my administration. Will you give it some consideration?”

  “Frankly, sir, it may well fit better now than it would have in the past. What do you have in mind?”

  “Can we talk about the details when you get back?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Toward that end, would it be all right if the First Lady contacts Ms. Darby and invites her to accompany us to Camp David? I’m thinking we could be there when you return and you could come out and join us. At the camp, we could kick back and talk about both your mission and my thoughts on your working here in Washington.”