by David Bishop
Chapter 52
Huddled with Directors Templeton and Crabtree, Ryan Testler labored to determine which guests could be Faraj Arafa. Their effort ended with eight possible guests spread over three hotels.
Ryan looked at Director Crabtree. “Four of the eight are in one hotel? Coincidence?”
“Could be nothing more than that. It is the hotel with the cleanest line of sight to the south lawn. That would be a reason for Faraj Arafa picking it.”
The directors assigned five-man squads, in plainclothes, to each of the three hotels. Five minutes later, Ryan was on his way to the hotel that housed four of the eight possibilities.
Secret Service Director Crabtree pulled Ryan aside. “Linda Darby is remaining at Camp David with the first family.”
Phew.
Templeton spoke next. “Between Crabby’s people and mine, we’ve got spotters outside each hotel watching the windows facing in the designated direction. All the agents inside and outside the hotels have a picture of Faraj Arafa. The info you provided indicated that prior to the firing of the missile, your perp will cut a hole in the hotel window. When that happens, we’ll know which room. At that point, things will move with lightning speed. In addition to the five plainclothes agents in each hotel, we have SWAT squads in vans outside the three hotels. When we know which hotel, SWAT will cordon off the entire hotel on our command. We’re ready.”
As ready as we can be without knowing which room in which hotel.
Chapter 53
A little before one, the announcement came. The president had left Camp David. Marine One was on its way to the south lawn of the White House. By road it was a distance of approximately seventy miles, by car, no more than about an hour and a half, by helicopter much faster.
So far, the photo Ryan Testler got from Dorothy Mitchum was of no help. Agents had shown it to front desk personnel, bellhops, waiters, and room service attendants in all the hotels. No one recognized Faraj Arafa. Ryan continued showing it around the hotel he was in. He showed it to every employee he didn’t remember showing it to previously.
Nothing.
There was some concern that Arafa might see him or some agent showing his picture, but that concern soon waned. The mere fact no one in any of the hotels recalled Arafa indicated he was, as Khouri had described, holed up in his room waiting for the moment of his jihad against the unbelievers.
Hungry, Ryan stopped in a gift shop and bought a candy bar. While at the counter he showed Arafa’s picture to the cashier who shook her head. While doing so, an older woman behind him holding a magazine and a print edition of a novel, The Blackmail Club, touched the back of his shoulder.
“Excuse me. I’ve seen that man.”
Ryan spun around. He took the woman by the arm and led her to the side. “Where? When?”
“Please, young man. You’re hurting me.”
“I’m so sorry. Truly. Please forgive me. This is very important.” He smiled and took a deep breath. “Where was this?”
“The room next to mine. I came out of the elevator and turned the corner into the hallway. His door, the first one around the corner, was open. He stood in the hallway and glanced at me while another man wheeled a box through his door.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes. No doubt.”
“How can you be so sure? It seems you only saw him for a moment.”
“Longer than a moment, oh yes.” The woman hitched her purse strap higher onto her shoulder. “I’d say at least a full minute while he waited for that box to get past him.”
“What made you pay such close attention?”
“I think it was two things, now that I think about.”
“Which are?”
“The delivery. It was a tall, skinny wood crate. About as tall as you are. I can’t be sure because it was tilted on the dolly. It wasn’t at all like the luggage you see coming in and out of rooms.”
“The other? You said two things.”
“This one I’m more ashamed of. My sister died in nine-eleven. The man I saw was an Arab, at least I think he was. Since my sister’s death I’ve been Arab-phobic. I know it’s unfair. That very few Arabs, Muslims or Islamists, whichever’s the correct term, are crazy killers, but phobia is irrational, I guess. Anyway, my sister was a fine woman. I loved her and she’s gone. My niece and two nephews no longer have a mother. I’m sorry. I hate them. No, I’m not sorry, I hate them. They can’t do these things and not expect to be hated.”
Ryan pressed the shortwave radio on his shoulder. “Meet me outside the gift shop. Bring all five, no commotion, but fast.”
The woman’s face took on a quizzical look.
The television in the corner of the gift shop showed an image of Marine One in the air. Ryan had seen this canned footage before. The announcer spoke of Marine One nearing the White House.
“Ma’am. There is so much I want to ask, but I have to cut to the chase. What hotel room are you in?”
“Room seven-nineteen.”
“Seventh floor?”
“Yes.”
“The room where you saw this crate being taken in. What room was that?”
“I didn’t know the number. Just down from my room. The next one?”
“On the same side of the hall as your room?”
“Yes.”
“Is that room nearer to the elevators than your room, or farther from them?”
“Oh, nearer. My room is second from the bank of elevators. That man’s room is the first one. That’s why I saw him when I came around the corner from the elevators. He couldn’t see me until I was virtually right outside his door.”
“Ma’am, I don’t have time to explain. Trust me, do not return to your room. Go to the restaurant and stay there. Wait for me there. Do not speak to anyone about this. It’s extremely important. Not to anyone.”
“Is this another one of those nine-eleven things?”
“No ma’am. At least, not exactly. You’re in no danger if you do as I instructed.”
“I just heard on the news that the president is headed back to the White House. That’s just down the street. Well, a little farther. But, is that what this is about?”
Ryan took her hand in his. “Please. I have no time to talk.” Ryan looked up to see the five men assigned to this hotel as backup standing outside the gift shop.
He leaned in and kissed the lady on the cheek. “You’re an angel. I have to go. Say nothing and wait for me.” While saying it, Ryan walked backward toward the door and out of the shop.
“The seventh floor, now. Quiet.”
On arrival, the head of the squad for this hotel obtained a key for the elevators that allowed the elevator to go only to the floor pressed after the key was inserted.
“From the elevators, first room on the left. High probability that’s where we’ll find the MANPAD and Faraj Arafa. I need you to stay out of view of the peephole in the door.”
Outside the elevator, he held the men up and called the outside team that was watching the windows of the hotel. “Seventh floor windows, first window from the corner of the building close to the elevators, anything?”
“Nothing. We can see them all. No glass cutting yet. Nothing at all. Is that it?”
“I think so. We’re aren’t certain, but we have to go in. Can you tell me if anyone is inside that room?”
“It appears yes. The flicker shows the TV is on. What do you want from our end?”
“Keep an eye on that window. I’m going to pass the phone to another man. He’ll remain on the line. If you see anything further, tell him.”
“Anything else?”
“We’re pretty sure, but not absolutely, so keep another man watching the other windows.”
Ryan took off his jacket and tossed it to one of the others. He reminded the other agents that the reservation for Faraj Arafa was made using the name, Cary Osbourne. Ryan loosened his tie before knocking on the door to room seven-seventeen. He waited a minute and knocked again. “Fr
ont desk, sir. A delivery for Mr. Cary Osbourne, room seven-seventeen.”
After twenty seconds, he looked to his left. The agent there spoke to him in a low voice. “The guy outside reports a man rose from the bed and walked toward the door. He can’t see all the way to the door.”
Ryan repeated his feigned delivery. Still, no answer at the door. Ryan looked toward the agent to his left.
“They still can’t see him. He’s near the door, apparently. Marine One is in sight. It’ll land in a very few minutes.”
Ryan heard his man’s voice talking to the squad leader outside. “If he starts cutting on that glass tell us immediately.”
“The man returned to the small table just inside the window. … He’s stepping toward the glass. … His hand appears to be against the inside of the window.”
Ryan stepped close to the hall door into seven-seventeen. He put the card key into the slot and in the same motion pushed the door wide. He stepped inside, holding his Glock.
* * *
Faraj heard a sound near the door to his room. He picked up the gun that had come in the crate with the MANPAD, and turned to see a man rushing into his room holding a gun.
“Faraj. I know you don’t want to do this. Don’t move. I will help you.”
“You can’t help my family. Faraj raised his gun.
Ryan fired. Then a second time.
Faraj went down.
Ryan rushed to him. He kicked the dropped gun away from Faraj, and kneeled next to him to check for an explosive vest or some kind of handheld detonator. He found none.
Faraj looked up at him. His lips moved.
Ryan leaned close to the young Egyptian.
“I didn’t want to. This is my way out. Thank you. I saw you near Dorothy’s building. Tell her—”
Epilogue
An hour later, Marine One, the one carrying President Wellington, the first lady, and Ryan’s first lady, Linda Darby, touched down on the South Lawn of the White House.
By late afternoon, President Wellington and Ryan Testler agreed to table their discussion of Ryan taking a leadership role in one of America’s intelligence agencies, or his replacing Henrietta Sullivan as the president’s consultant on the Middle East. They would talk, but not for a while. After that they discussed when Ryan would return to the Middle East to carry out phase two, the delivery of President Wellington’s Doctrine.
At seven that evening, from the upstairs residence, at Ryan Testler’s encouragement, President Robert Wellington placed a phone call to Dorothy Mitchum. He thanked her for helping save his life and the lives of those who would have been with him in Marine One.
“Mr. President, I’m so grateful you’re safe. I’d like you to know, I don’t believe Faraj would have discharged that weapon. Faraj Arafa was a kind young man. It is so horrible that others put him in the position he was in.”
After a little more talk, the president handed the phone to Ryan.
“Dorothy, I’m sorry it ended as it did. There was really no alternative.”
“I understand, Ryan. You’re a good man and you did what you had to be done. I assure you Faraj did not want to do this. Had it not been for his family, he would never have been in that hotel room.”
That’s why Faraj whispered, ‘Thank you’.
This is book four of the Linda Darby / Ryan Testler stories. If you have not read the other three, please follow this link. They are each an independent story that can be read in any order. https://amzn.to/2Qs2vut
The four stories in the Linda Darby / Ryan Testler series are:
The Woman, book one
Hometown Secrets, book two
The First Lady’s Second Man, book three
Heart Strike, book four
Beginning on the following page is an excerpt of book one in David Bishop’s Matt Kile Mystery Series. The seven stories in the Matt Kile mystery series are:
Who Murdered Garson Talmadge, book one
The Original Alibi, book two
Money & Murder, a novelette as book three
Find My Little Sister, an historical crime novel, book four
The Maltese Pigeon, book five
Judge Snider’s Folly, book six
The Year We Had Murder, book seven
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Who Murdered Garson Talmadge
A Matthew Kile Mystery
* AMAZON LIST OF TOP-RATED MYSTERY SERIES
* AMAZON LIST OF BEST-SELLING MYSTERY SERIES
Matt Kile, ex-cop and ex-con, current smart-aleck, and a neighbor of Mr. and Mrs. Talmadge has built himself a comfortable career writing mysteries. Garson Talmadge sold weapons to Saddam Hussein, then moved out of France, came to America and married Clarice, a woman half his age. When Clarice is arrested for murdering her husband, Matt becomes the investigator for her defense attorney, and quickly learns there is a line of suspects stretching from the U.S. into Europe and the Middle East.
Not long after getting involved in the case Matt learns that Garson Talmadge’s weapons deals meant the FBI had an interest as well as the French Prefecture of Police. While Matt is simply trying to establish that Clarice is innocent, the FBI is trying to learn how Hussein got some of his weaponry, and powerful members of the French government and armaments industry wants to keep Matt from following the trail far enough to expose them.
Told in the first person, Matt shares his thoughts and wise remarks as he weaves his way through a mass of plot twists and turns to its conclusion, and learns Who Murdered Garson Talmadge.
Prologue
It’s funny the way a kiss stays with you. How it lingers. How you can feel it long after it ends. I understand what amputees mean when they speak of phantom limbs. It’s there, but it isn’t. You know it isn’t. But you feel it’s still with you. While I was in prison, my wife divorced me; I thought she was with me, but she wasn’t. She said I destroyed our marriage in a moment of rage in a search for some kind of perverted justice. I didn’t think it was perverted, but I didn’t blame her for the divorce.
But enough sad stuff. Yesterday I left the smells and perversions of men, and, wearing the same clothes I had worn the last day of my trial, reentered the world of three-dimensional women and meals you choose for yourself; things I used to take for granted, but don’t any longer. My old suit fit looser and had a musty smell, but nothing could be bad on a con’s first day of freedom. I tilted my head back and inhaled. Free air smelled different, felt different tossing my hair and puffing my shirt.
I had no excuses. I had been guilty. I knew that. The jury knew that. The city knew that. The whole damn country knew. I had shot the guy in front of the TV cameras, emptied my gun into him. He had raped and killed a woman, then killed her three children for having walked in during his deed. The homicide team of Kile and Fidgery had found the evidence that linked the man I killed to the crime. Sergeant Matthew Kile, that was me, still is me, only now there’s no Sergeant in front of my name, and my then partner, Detective Terrence Fidgery. We arrested the scum, and he readily confessed.
The judge ruled our search illegal and all that followed bad fruit, which included the thug’s confession. Cute words for giving a rapist-killer a get-out-of-jail-free card. In chambers the judge had wrung his hands while saying, “I have to let him walk.” Judges talk about their rules of evidence as though they had replaced the rules about right and wrong. Justice isn’t about guilt and innocence, not anymore. Over time, criminal trials had become a game for wins and losses between district attorneys and the
mouthpieces for the accused. Heavy wins get defense attorneys bigger fees. For district attorneys, wins mean advancement into higher office and maybe even a political career. They should take the robes away from the judges and make them wear striped shirts like referees in other sports.
On the courthouse steps, the news hounds had surrounded the rapist-killer like he was a movie star. Fame or infamy can make you a celebrity, and America treats celebrity like virtue.
I still see the woman’s husband, the father of the dead children, stepping out from the crowd, standing there looking at the man who had murdered his family, palpable fury filling his eyes. His body pulsing from the strain of controlled rage that was fraying around the edges, ready to explode. The justice system had failed him, and because we all rely on it, failed us all. Because I had been the arresting officer, I had also failed him.
The thug spit on the father and punched him, knocking him down onto the dirty-white marble stairs; he rolled all the way to the bottom, stopping on the sidewalk. The police arrested the man we all knew to be a murderer, charging him with assault and battery.
The thug laughed. “I’ll plead to assault,” he boasted. “Is this a great country or what?”
At that moment, without a conscious decision to do so, I drew my service revolver and fired until my gun emptied. The lowlife went down. The sentence he deserved, delivered.
The district attorney tried me for murder-two. The same judge who had let the thug walk gave me seven years. Three months after my incarceration, the surviving husband and father, a wealthy business owner, funded a public opinion poll that showed more than eighty percent of the people felt the judge was wrong, with an excess of two-thirds thinking I did right. All I knew was the world was better off without that piece of shit, and people who would have been damaged in the future had this guy lived, would now be safe. That was enough; it had to be.