Heart Strike

by David Bishop

  Webb and Bollen left Testler’s office in a rush. Testler tapped his pen for a moment, then got up and walked to Webb’s desk. “Be sure to include all the particulars on where Khouri lives: address, security, who else lives there. We may need to make a house call—without an invitation.”

  “Mr. Testler?”

  Testler moved a few feet to stand next to Vanessa Bollen. “Yes?”

  “How did you know all that stuff about prayer differences between Sunni and Shiites?”

  “Not important. … Later. Later.”

  “Okay. Please, another question.” Testler nodded. “What about the other agencies for what they might have on Joseph Khouri or the other two names?”

  “Absolutely. That’s part of getting everything. Our agencies, yes. Also Mossad, England’s MI-5 and MI-6, the French DGSE.” Testler put up his hand, one finger pointing toward the ceiling. “But not the Arab states, Turkey, or Persia.”

  When Blackstone came into his office, Testler brought him up to date on their session with Benoit and what work he’d assigned to Bollen and Webb. “Dillinger’s running the lead on all that. Khouri operates in the open representing the Arab council he founded. As soon as he’s located, I want you have a team set up to tail him twenty-four-seven. Khouri’s your personal charge. I want you to know where he is, who he’s with, and what he’s doing every minute. Be prepared to look into everyone he’s with. Everything, right down to which bedroom in his house he sleeps in.”

  Over the next two hours, Testler’s team leaders brought him initial findings about Joseph Knouri, real first name, Dawoud, and the Arab-American Loyalist Council he founded and administered. In with the initial material was the CIA workup on Khouri and their efforts to date to gather intelligence on the man. Given that Khouri was an Egyptian foreign national, the CIA’s efforts within the U.S. were aided by their National Resources Division (NR).

  Khouri’s organization, the AALC, was well-funded and operated under a catchall mission statement that boiled down to promoting non-violent interaction with the world of nations, and the advancement of women’s rights in the Middle East. They had press coverage and pictures of their humanitarian efforts in Syria and elsewhere. Other press and website pictures showed Khouri interacting with political leaders throughout Europe and the United States, and with Muslim leaders known for a more confrontational style. Speeches by Khouri were found. Many followed a pattern of speaking of the legitimacy of the complaints and accusations of the radical wing of Islam. In many of the speeches, he simultaneously worked to tone down the behavior and rhetoric, replacing it with an increase of cooperation and dialogue without violence.

  Will the real Dawoud Jusef Khouri please stand up?

  The material that kept trickling in to Testler remained consistent with what Benoit told him and what the surveillance of Middle East Advisor Henrietta Sullivan indicated. Khouri was either a devoted terrorist or simply doing the radicals’ bidding in return for money.

  Five minutes later, the straw that broke Khouri’s facade was placed on Ryan’s desk. The National Security Agency located a call between Khouri and the militant leader of a small radical group in Egypt. That group was traced back to the Kharijites formed during the time of the third Caliph.

  Both the Brotherhood and this splinter group had the same goal, a Sharia Law driven world, but the splinter group, impatient with the pace of progress, became much more pro-violence. Egyptian intelligence, which has a long history of an on-again off-again relationship with the Muslim Brotherhood, had a file on a shadowy Sunni Arab with a first name of Dawoud who sat on the executive council of the unnamed militant splinter group. They had no picture, only a description—very fat.

  Time to move on this guy.

  Twenty minutes later, Dillinger sent Bollen to deliver Testler the report they just finished. The one on Khouri’s current location, his residence, and the layout of his home and its occupants.

  Khouri’s like Benoit and Robin in France, even the ship’s officer, Amman. None of them are battle-hardened. They’re whores with soft centers. Their interests are their purses and their luxuries. That’s my lever.

  An hour after absolute dark, Testler sat in an untraceable automobile just around the corner from the rented D.C. home of Dawoud Joseph Khouri, a home paid for by donations to his Arab-American Loyalty Council.

  Chapter 47

  Testler looked over the information on major coming events in the D.C. area, and a list of foreign dignitaries and others arriving soon in the nation’s capital. He concluded that whatever was about to happen wouldn’t for at least another day. If he was right, he had some time, hopefully, enough.

  I don’t want to think about what will happen if I’m wrong.

  The only source in front of him for what he didn’t know was Joseph Khouri. He wasn’t just a fat man, he was a fat and soft man. The enemies he confronted, he found on the battlefield where bread is broken, gained their confidences, and betrayed them. He was a manipulator, a briber, not a warrior on the holy battlefield ready to die to rid the world of infidels. Khouri would never be a fanatic frothed up to die for his cause. He was his cause. For him, victory was continuing his life of luxury.

  Khouri was Iscariot willing to betray anyone for his own gain. Testler’s real enemy of the moment was time. Did he have enough? He would need to play Khouri just right to find out how much time.

  Khouri might already have wound up the terrorist sleeper and turned him loose to march on his target. Khouri days and evenings were mostly spent in the open, observed by many, doing things a terrorist coordinator would, seemingly, not be doing at the time of an imminent attack.

  This was confirmed by the live feed from the CIA surveillance team, which had maintained eyes on Khouri since learning he was the suspected contact man for the traitorous Henrietta Sullivan. For the last several days, Khouri’s movements would be described as routine and uneventful—even boring. This morning, the man began his day over a generous double order of Eggs Florentine. His midday was absorbed by a lunch of oysters on the half shell backed up by three martinis consumed in a popular local spot where he was observed by members of Washington elite from politics and the media.

  As the sun began to slide behind the taller nearby buildings, Khouri met a woman for dinner in one of the capital’s finest French restaurants. The woman’s appearance indicated she could be a player who specialized in holding dinner parties to raise funds for the darners of worsted wool, or any group that paid her to raise funds.

  While Khouri and his trollop of frivolity dined, Ryan headed for the surveillance truck parked across the street from the restaurant. The truck was receiving a live audio-visual feed from agents inside the restaurant. The agents in the truck simultaneously fed Ryan an audio hookup.

  As he drove, Ryan heard Khouri order two more French seventy-five cocktails along with a dessert of blood oranges and dates imported from the Middle East. Ryan walked toward the surveillance truck while listening to the conversation between Khouri and his date.

  “Do you like western movies?”

  Her voice turned a bit bland. “I suppose. Why?”

  “I have a huge collection in my media room. Hundreds to pick from. It’s my way of unwinding.”

  “I wish we had time to watch a few, but we should keep our attention on each other.”

  Khouri raised his glass. “Did you know our drink tonight, the French seventy-five was invented at the New York Bar in Paris during World War I? … Yes. It’s true, my dear.”

  “How apropos. After all, I mean, this is a French restaurant.” She uttered what seemed either a fundraiser’s giggle, or the deeper prurient sound of a high-end escort. Both groups pursue monetary reward in exchange for different levels of encouragement.

  The video feed showed the woman using one foot to push off her other high heel. Her naked toes wormed up inside Khouri’s pant leg to toy with his fat calf.

  She put her hand on his forearm. “Well, if you don’t stop ordering t
hose drinks, I’ll remember them as the French cocktail I drank seventy-five of, or is that a dangling participle?”

  “Ahhh. I take it I’ve plied you with enough food and drink?”

  “You certainly have.” She used her fingers to tangle the black hairs on his arm. ”Particularly if, back at your place, I’m to have the energy to dance with your dangling participle.”

  They laughed. Khouri called for the check. It arrived almost immediately. He gave the waiter a credit card.

  Testler turned to the man in the truck. “Once they’ve left, get in there and take down the information from his credit card purchase.”

  While Khouri dealt with the bill, Testler used the outside line in the surveillance truck to arrange two local police squad cars to stop Khouri’s automobile as he drove back to his house. They were to remove the woman under a claim she looked like a person for whom there was an outstanding arrest warrant. One squad car was to leave with her. The police officers from the other car were to treat Mr. Khouri with deference, but warn him that he was in no condition to drive. He would not be arrested or ticketed, on the condition that one of the officers would drive him home in the squad car while the second officer followed in Khouri’s automobile to get it home and safely parked in his garage.

  With this set up and Khouri still settling the bill in the restaurant, Testler left the surveillance truck, ran to his car, and headed for Khouri’s home. Testler figured he would beat Khouri home by a little over an hour. The police were alerted to absorb time explaining to the woman why she was being detained. The officers would then admonish Khouri for the dangers of drinking and driving.

  I’ll have most of an hour to stage Khouri’s house.

  Chapter 48

  How had Testler put it when Linda asked what he did—“The most dishonorable work that can be done honorably.” Such things were at the core of the man. Dawoud Jusef Khouri would soon know that due process was not Ryan Testler’s work.

  From inside Khouri’s home, Testler watched the lights of a D. C. squad car pause at the curb. This would be the police bringing the two-legged cyst home for the night. The officer driving Khouri’s Mercedes found the release button to open the gate across the driveway of his estate. It took ten minutes for the gate to open, the officers to once again admonish Khouri about the evils of drinking and driving, for one of them to drive Khouri’s car into his garage, and for the officers to drive away in their squad car.

  Khouri looked at the sky and shook his head. He walked into the garage and lowered the door.

  The rest of the evening would go far differently than Mr. Khouri imagined. He would not enjoy his trollop of frivolity. He would, even less, enjoy Ryan Testler, the extractor of secrets.

  They’d never met, but, after seeing Khouri’s media room adorned with posters of famous western films and a cabinet full of DVD films for that genre, Testler put on the western bandit’s bandana mask that hung on one wall. For effect and greater disguise, he added a ten-gallon cowboy hat, complete with the crease in its crown from which a cowboys’ horse drank water poured from a canteen. Testler left his coat in his car around the corner. For a final touch, he rolled up the pant cuffs on his trousers. He looked at his appearance in the bathroom mirror.

  I shoulda starred with Sam Elliott and Tom Selleck in Shadow Riders.

  When Khouri entered the house, Testler was into his role and ready.

  The fat man came in from the garage, through the laundry room, around the corner and into Testler’s fist. It struck Khouri in the stomach—a hard blow into his massive center. Khouri’s exhale introduced Testler to the aroma of consumed French seventy-fives, chased with the aftertaste of blood oranges and dates.

  Khouri dropped hard onto his tiled kitchen floor.

  Testler stood with his back against the wall, his legs crossed at the ankles. “Get up.”

  “I can’t. I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “Then get up after you throw up.” He dropped the lasso from Khouri’s film room over its owner’s head and drew it tight around his upper arms.

  Khouri gripped the edge of his duplex refrigerator and got to his knees. After several long breathes, he put his hand on the kitchen counter and rose to a standing position.

  Testler tugged on the rope and led his fatted calf into the film room. “Go stand against the wall. The one over there that has the soundproofing material on it. It’s so thoughtful of you to soundproof this room so your neighbors were never disturbed by your movie watching. I appreciate it as well, because it means your neighbors won’t be disturbed by either my shots or your screams. This is going to work right dandy.”

  “Who are you? What do you want? I want my lawyer.”

  “I’m not here to answer your questions and, believe me, your lawyer can’t help you tonight. Those scallywags help out when things are being done according to the niceties of the law. Tonight, our time’s about cowboy justice. You’re planning to send your marauders in to shoot up my town. Instead, you’re in the middle of the O.K. Corral. You get my drift, podner?”

  “What is this about?”

  “I thought you’d enjoy this. I mean, obviously, you’re a huge fan of western movies. Well, speaking literally, you’re a huge everything. Perhaps I should have said a big fan of western movies. I figured you’d get a kick out of a little shootout.”

  “This is crazy.”

  “Yep, podner, crazy is what it is. You and your crazies are fucking up the world and I won’t stand for it in my town. You know what this is?” Testler held up a rope gizmo. “Of course, you do. Cowboys would put them on their horse’s legs when there was no hitching post or corral handy. It kept their steeds from wandering off while the cowboy slept. Put your back against that wall.” Testler went to Khouri and put a horse hobble on his legs.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Listen up. I don’t wanna have to keep going over and over this. I get to ask the questions, not you. I got the gun. See?” Testler held it in front of Khouri’s face. “That’s the way this kinda thing works. The one with the gun gets to ask the questions. The one without the gun gets to give the answers. It’s that simple. You need to get into the spirit and play by my rules. Giving me honest answers is what’ll keep you from getting shot. Stand still. You ain’t exactly a man of great balance and if you fall you might just roll away.”

  With Khouri tethered, Testler walked back into the second of the ten rows of theater seats. From there, he turned, aimed and fired a round that struck Khouri in the fleshy area on his left side.

  Khouri went to his knees.

  Testler ordered him up.

  “You said if I didn’t answer, you’d shoot me. You didn’t ask me anything. You just shot me.”

  “Pffh. That’s nothing. Wait’ll I start aiming at your ball bag. Now that’s a tough shot. To hit it without exploding a testicle. For that shot I’ll move back a few rows. I don’t wanna be getting any of the content on these here boots.”

  “But you shot me without asking me anything.”

  “Sheesh. I can’t believe all this cry-babying. We ain’t even started yet. I was just getting warmed up. Wanted you to know the way a lie will make you feel. Okay. I’m ready if you are.”

  “Ask, damn it.”

  “Now, wait a minute. New rule. Cursing ain’t allowed in this here town. I’m the sheriff so I’m the only one who gets to pack a pistol, and nobody gets to do any swearing. Do it again and I’m gonna treat it like a lie. Okay, question one, and you can’t phone a friend to help find the answer. No. Wait a minute. You’re not ready. Cheer up. This ain’t all that bad. I’m only going to ask questions for which you have answers. The only real question is how many times in how many places am I gonna have to shoot you to get those answers.”

  “Ask. Ask. My God, man.”

  “Okay. One answer, I gotta warn ya, one answer that’ll make me stop firing at your soft chewy parts and aim closer to vital organs, or your genitalia. Don’t be hollering Allahu Akbar.
None of that. You’re a pragmatist, not a fanatic, so act like one.”

  Khouri’s head jerked up and he went silent. His eyes squinted. He stared toward Testler who again stood between two rows of theater seats, this time one row farther from his prey.

  “You know what I’m gonna do? It’s a good deal for you and me. I’m going to save time and cut to the chase. I’ll tell ya the part I know rather than waste time with your denials and my having to shoot you somewheres after each of your lies. Here goes: you’re coordinating a terrorist attack to soon occur here in D.C. The weapon was brought in by ship with your people picking it up in the bay off the coast of Maryland, not far from Baltimore Harbor. Now, I may have a little of that a little off, but its close enough for you to realize I know what’s going on.

  “The shooter’s an Egyptian boy, a student at Georgetown University. Shame on ya for sending a boy to do a man’s job. I figure the weapon is a MANPAD missile, but I could be off on that too. Nonetheless, even if I am, it don’t change nothing. You’re still the target in my rendition of this shootout at the O.K. Corral. Tonight, I’m gonna find out the part I don’t know. If not, the town’s undertaker is gonna be carting you off to Boot Hill. I’m sure he doesn’t wanna be doing that cause a man your size will be needin’ a big old hole.”

  Testler stopped talking and walked down to stand inches from Khouri’s face. The man’s expression oozed more confusion than defiance. Testler smirked and walked back to his position among the rows of seats. When he got there he turned, appeared to take no aim, and fired as part of one fluid motion. His bullet hit the blubber above Khouri’s belt buckle on his other side.

  “Ahhhhrrrg.” Khouri again dropped to his knees. His hobbled legs twisted unnaturally. His shoulders against the wall kept him from tumbling over.

  Testler sat in a theater seat, crossed his leg, and waited. When he heard Khouri openly sobbing, he went up and helped Khouri onto his feet.

  “Are you ready for the part about what I don’t know?”