Heart Strike

by David Bishop

  “I know she’ll be flattered by the invitation, sir.”

  “Would you speak with her, confidentially, before you leave? Tell her she’ll hear from us.”

  “Of course.”

  “All right. I’ll see it’s taken care of from this end, and we’ll talk much more when you return. Now, be off with you my friend.”

  The president touched a button. The Secret Service escort entered a moment later, and led Ryan out.

  Chapter 28

  It was Friday, six o’clock, and the sun was in fast retreat when Dorothy heard the bell on her front door. “It’s open,” she hollered. She leaned back from her kitchen counter and looked toward the door to see her regular Friday dinner companion, Faraj, walk in.

  He stepped into her kitchen.

  She smiled, and handed him a bottle of Coors Light. “You said you wanted to talk. It sounded serious. I made your favorite—meatloaf. It’ll be ready in a few minutes. Sit and enjoy your beer. We can talk after dinner, if that’s okay?”

  Faraj didn’t smile. He nodded, his mood solemn. He didn’t sit. He leaned against the doorway, and took a long pull on his beer. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “You know me. The kitchen’s my playground. I’ll have it ready in a jiffy. Now sit. Go on.” She brushed the back of her hand at the air in the direction of her small table in front of the kitchen window.

  Faraj sat. He remained quiet, staring out her window.

  Dorothy gazed out that same window frequently. From there, Faraj would be able to see into the fenced backyard of the house on the next street—a few trees, a child’s swing set, an adult’s hammock, and a black matte barbecue on a small bricked pad not far from a picnic table on the nearby grass. On warm days, the woman who lived there sometimes lounged in the hammock, topless. Perhaps that explained Faraj’s mesmerized stare. It was a little after six, a bit late for her to work on her all-over tan.

  After another minute of his near catatonic state, she stepped back and glanced over. The hammock was empty and still. The grass was mostly the color of winter, with May bringing a little anticipation of green.

  Faraj turned the beer in his hand, but didn’t drink.

  Dorothy looked askance at him while carrying the last of the food to the table, a bowl of creamed corn. She glanced at the birdcage. The door was open. Red stayed inside, quiet, on the roost at the back of the cage. She took the chair across from Faraj.

  “I suggested we talk after dinner, but it seems odd to talk about your classes and our Sunday walks when, it’s obvious, you’re troubled. I hope you haven’t received bad news from home?”

  “My mother is fine. … As far as I know.”

  “Then what can be all that serious? Go on, eat. Talk now or whenever. I don’t know what I can offer by way of a solution, but my ears are yours.”

  Faraj took a bite of meatloaf. While he chewed, his eyes watched his fork push creamed corn around the plate. “It’s a friend. A friend in Europe. We stay in touch. He’s in a mess. A real jam, I guess your Humphrey Bogart would say.”

  “Your friend, is he also Egyptian?”

  “Yes.” Faraj took a drink of beer and disinterestedly a taste of his mashed potatoes.

  “Were you friends as boys in Egypt?”

  “Yes. We roomed together while going through religious training and … stuff.”

  “You sounded rather American saying—and stuff.”

  Faraj shook his head. “This is far from American.”

  “I admit my ignorance on such things. Then you mean, Muslim?”

  “Without getting too technical, in common usage, a Muslim is someone who subscribes to the religion of Islam.”

  “I assume he is also Islamic?”

  “Islam is used to name the religious and certain acts done in the name of the religion.”

  “Like terrorism?”

  Faraj reacted as if he’d been slapped. … “It can be terrorism—as defined by the western world. It can also be art or architecture. But Islam should never be used to refer to a person who practices the religion. The person is Muslim. The religion is Islam.”

  “Thank you for the explanation. I assume this distinction does not directly address your friend’s problem.”

  “No.”

  “Your friend has brought his problem to you seeking your guidance?”

  Faraj took another bite and nodded. The mere fact he had not yet praised her meatloaf confirmed he was under great strain.

  “I take it you’re struggling over how to advise your friend. Do you wish to tell me the details of what has put your friend in this quandary?”

  Faraj swallowed, looked down, and took another drink of his beer. “My friend received intense education and special training for several years before being sent to this country…I mean to Europe.”

  “And?”

  “After more than four years, he suddenly was given a mission. Something he must do. He is devoted to those he follows, or always has been, but…” Faraj went quiet, gazing out the window. From his sitting position he could only see the tops of the trees.

  Dorothy prodded. “I take it your friend is conflicted between his mandate to obey, and some personal desire to not obey.”

  Faraj inhaled and puckered his lips. After pausing, he nodded slightly, and spoke weakly. “Yes.”

  When Faraj remained in a cataleptic state, Dorothy reached across the table and put her open hand on his forearm. “Are we speaking of an act of terrorism?”

  Faraj pulled his arm back as if Dorothy’s hand were a hot poker. He put down his fork, and moved his hands below the top of the table. “What he has come to think about the people where he lives is very different than what his teachers preached to him … what he had been led to believe.”

  “And what have you told him?”

  “That these … unbelievers, in the literal word of God as taken down in the Quran, are not all evil. In point of fact, very few are.”

  “How did your friend take that thought?”

  “He wondered, ‘how can an unbeliever not be evil. Islam requires a surrender to the word of God which is literally put forth in our holy book.’ Put in the context of what I am learning at Georgetown, a non-evil, unbeliever would be … an oxymoron. Such a person cannot exist. My training says an unbeliever is, by that very fact, evil.”

  “I can see your friend’s conundrum. I suppose in the context of his thinking, to not accomplish what he has been ordered to do could make him an unbeliever. An outcast from his family and his religion.”

  “A lost soul who has rejected his faith.”

  “Your friend is in a horrible position.”

  “His faith and his people will damn him if he denies his mission. On the other hand, he will damn himself if he performs his mission.”

  “What of his family? Would they stand with him?”

  “No. His family dates back to the founders of the Brotherhood. Should he choose to disobey, his disobedience itself could result in what America has come to think of as a fatwã naming him and his entire family.”

  “Do you mean a death sentence?”

  “Yes.” His lips quivered. He sat still, breathing deeply and spreading his eyes wide. “That is, using fatwã under its Western connotation. A proper clarification of the term is not important for now.”

  Faraj tightened his grip on his fork. His knuckles whitened from the strain. His eyes were cast down, his mouth slightly open.

  Dorothy pushed her plate forward and placed her forearms on the tabletop. “Faraj. Faraj!” He looked up at her. “Are we talking about you?”

  Faraj remained still.

  “You have dreams. I know you do. Don’t let go.”

  “I had dreams.” Faraj stood. “No longer.” His fists clenched. “I shouldn’t have come. This is a matter someone like you can never understand. Forgive me. Thank you for dinner.” He touched her shoulder, squeezing it gently. “I must go.” He walked out of Dorothy’s kitchen and toward her front door.


  Dorothy’s voice followed him. “Hold onto your dream. If you don’t have one, it can’t come true.”

  “I must go.”

  The door shut behind Faraj.

  Chapter 29

  The second man took a seat on the open-air bench. “Everything’s in place. The equipment’s ready. We only need a date and place to deliver it. Allah is great.”

  “Stuff that crap about Allah. You don’t believe that dogma any more than I do. Let the fanatics wallow in their bullshit. For us this is only about money.”

  “Which we don’t get if we don’t deliver.”

  “No sweat. One hour. To any location here in D.C. Like American pizza, we deliver.”

  “They’ll want assurances.”

  “If it isn’t there on time, we don’t get the five million to split. They know full well that’s what motivates us.”

  The two men nodded, rose from the bench, and walked away in different directions.

  * * *

  The private plane bringing Ryan Testler to Jerusalem touched down. As it slowed on the tarmac of Ben Gurion International Airport, a black limousine moved into position on the pilot’s side of the plane, matching its speed. The two slowed and stopped in unison. When the plane’s engines stilled, short stairs were wheeled up to the door already pulled inward and swung open. Ryan stepped out and moved briskly down the portable stairs. A few steps across the tarmac and he entered the backseat of the limo. The sleek black vehicle sped toward a gate choreographed to open just fast enough to accommodate its departure.

  The vehicle left the grounds of the airport and melted into the darkness. With the gate closed and the stairs wheeled away, the pilot taxied the plane toward a government hanger.

  Chapter 30

  At three a.m., after a two-hour stop at the office of the Israeli Prime Minister, the limo pulled up under the portico of Ryan’s hotel.

  Inside his room, he slid his suitcase on top of the dresser next to the television. He took a beer from the mini-fridge. His watch displayed two dials, one showing Jerusalem time, the other showing the time in Washington, D.C. where it was a little after eight at night. He used his satellite phone to make a secure call to President Wellington.

  “Hello, Ryan.”

  “Hello, Mr. President.”

  “I’m stalling a meeting, hopefully my last one tonight, so jump right to the meat of it. I assume you arrived there without incident.”

  “Affirmative, sir. Highpoints are the prime minister is completely supportive of your doctrine. He did want me to tell you he’s pleased you removed what was the seventh plank in your first draft. He believes sales of weapons are best dealt with on a case-by-case basis without restrictions by any well-meaning but inflexible rule or guideline.”

  “Good. That’s a fine job, my friend. Anything else?”

  “Nothing important enough to further delay your meeting.”

  “There is one more thing from my end. The debriefing of your French banker, Benoit, has begun. He has knowledge of a planned terrorist attack upon our soil. He describes it as imminent, but would not give details without you being there.”

  “Perhaps I could talk to him by phone.”

  “No. Those debriefing him are emphatic. He will not talk without you and he insists it be in person. From the way the man talked, there is not enough time to wait until you return from visiting the countries in the Middle East.”

  “What do you want me to do, sir?”

  “An attack on our soil must take precedence over the policy mission that took you there.”

  “I am expected elsewhere tomorrow.”

  “Yes, well, that can’t be helped. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to sleep on the plane. I’ll take care of making our excuses with the leaders of those countries. Right now, I almost wish this Benoit hadn’t come out of the blue while you were in France. Then again, if he has what he says, as he insists, and we can prevent a terrorist act in America, it must be given the higher priority.”

  “I’ll leave immediately.”

  “Thank you. Get what sleep you can. I’ll try not to call while you’re in flight.”

  Chapter 31

  Ryan Testler’s plane descended for a landing at Washington Dulles International Airport in Virginia, about fifteen or so miles from CIA headquarters at Langley in McLean, Virginia.

  On the later part of his flight, Ryan used his laptop to watch news from France and their political commentary television. One of the subjects getting considerable attention was the disappearance of the French financier, now identified as the banker Henri Benoit. Like political talk shows in America, the absence of hard information, hell, any factual information, didn’t get in the way of far-flung conjecture.

  One opinion, from among the three talking heads, was that the mere absence of a ransom demand meant Benoit was already dead. This unfounded declaration was countered by another commentator who opined that if Benoit’s death was the objective, he could have been killed on the street outside his bank. The reasoning for this went: why chance the need for more manpower and greater operational time to abduct him? If they wanted his death, just shoot him dead when he exits his bank. This could be carried out by one man, in close, or by a sniper from a distance. This second opinion was then rebutted by head number three who claimed, according to his unnamed sources, Benoit had long been playing financial footsie with Islamic terrorists. That Benoit moved money for them without triggering banking protocols and, in so doing, gained enormous personal wealth. This theory came from journalist number three, a man famous for his arranged interviews with known or suspected terrorist groups.

  One of the first two heads abandoned his earlier remarks and jumped onboard this latest theory, saying, “Maybe ISIS or another group took him for moving funds for opposing factions.”

  Ryan smiled and shook his head. There were morsels of truth in all of these bold contradicting assertions. Their haphazard tossing of a truth stick, now and again, into the pile of conversational kindling didn’t diminish his frustration. The danger of this kind of quasi-reporting being that viewers often absorbed the commentary and treated it as if they heard factual reporting.

  Edward R. Murrow and Walter Cronkite are rolling over in their graves.

  The landing jarred Ryan out of his thoughts. His plane slowed on its way to a paved area near an airport hangar. By the time he deplaned, there was a car waiting. The female driver was from the CIA. Her orders were to pick up Ryan and escort him to meet with a man held in an out-building on the grounds of what is formally known as The George Bush Center for Intelligence. Informally referred to as Langley, the name of the McLean, Virginia, neighborhood where the CIA headquarters is located. She didn’t mention Benoit. Ryan assumed the driver didn’t know the Frenchman’s identity.

  * * *

  The out-building was a house of about twenty-five hundred square feet, including an office sufficient for maybe five or six workers. The structure was ringed by fifty yards of clearing. The area beyond was heavily treed.

  When Ryan got close, the door opened and he entered. Benoit sat slumped at a dining room table sturdy enough to function for meals or interrogation, even for agents needing minor emergency medical attention. The Frenchman looked up when Ryan walked into the room. He stiffened, tried for a casual look, and licked his lips.

  Ryan offered no expression of recognition. He walked directly to Benoit, stood and looked down at the man. “We’re holding up our end. You’re here, safe, and being provided for. Why aren’t you cooperating?”

  “Hello Testler. Come on, don’t play hardass. Everything’s fine. Let’s you and me talk.” With his elbow on the table, he moved his hand between them as if it were a metronome. “Just the two of us.”

  “You’ve asked for asylum from the USA, not from me. The agency provided the manpower, the safe passage, and this temporary secure facility where we can get our business done before you venture out to your new American life. The deal was you’d cooperate with the U.S. go
vernment. A word of caution. You’ll benefit by having these fellas,” Ryan waved his arm in the general direction of the two other men in the room, agents he had yet to meet, “see you as a decent guy on the side of preventing unnecessary death and destruction. For now, hell, for the rest of your life, you’re out of the ivory tower of your bank. Work with us as you promised or get the hell out. We swept you off a Paris street. We can just as easily replant you there.”

  “That would be the end of me.”

  “Then get your head around this simple fact: we didn’t join Team Benoit, you joined Team USA. The three of us are going to step out and give you ten minutes. When we come back, you let us know the street corner where you want us to drop you, or maybe we’ll just pick a spot in Aleppo, Syria. If that lacks appeal for you, tell us you’re off the high and mighty and ready to cooperate … 100%, starting with whether or not this strike you claim will occur on American soil is real or more of your BS.”

  Benoit started to say something. Testler held up his hand. “No. Not now. In ten minutes we’ll come back and at that time we’re past this shit one way or the other. Come on guys, let’s fold it up and give our guest a chance to decide his fate.”

  Chapter 32

  Ryan Testler and the two agents, in suits, one with and one without a tie, returned to the room where Henri Benoit sat alone. He looked up.

  “Hey, Testler, somehow we got off on the wrong foot. This is all a misunderstanding. I came to you, remember? I asked for the asylum. This is where I want to be. America is my new home. I’m ready to do what I said I would. I didn’t know these guys. Unfamiliar surroundings. Everyone I see is a stranger.” His eyes flittered toward the other two. “I wanted to first talk to you.”