by Van Torrey
Doctor Michael Ryan, a Stanford Medical graduate himself, had done a neurological surgery residency at Barrow Neurological Institute in Phoenix under the world renowned Doctor Robert Spenser, then became a staff surgeon and eventually chief protégé of Doctor Spenser. When the position of Chief of Staff at Stanford Medical Center became available, Doctor Ryan was offered the position. Rachel Hunter and Doctor Ryan had met when Rachel, as the new President of Stanford, toured the hospital early in her tenure and Doctor Ryan, as her tour guide, casually mentioned that the two might have a mutual acquaintance in the person of his brother, William, who happened to be a CIA covert operator.
Doctor Ryan did not breach carefully guarded protocol by blurting out such a sensitive topic, but he simply made it known to President Hunter, “I believe you and my brother, Will, may at one time have shared a common professional interest.”
Rachel courteously acknowledged Doctor Ryan and cataloged the remark for later consideration. The fact that she found Doctor Ryan attractive on a number of levels was a catalyst for her to take subsequent interest in the Doctor’s off-hand remark. A little discreet checking with a former CIA associate confirmed that a William ‘Will’ Ryan was an employee of a certain front company used by the CIA as a cover for covert operations. An informal question to the HR Director at the hospital, the answer to which confirmed Doctor Ryan’s status as unmarried, opened the door for Rachel to send an email to Michael Ryan suggesting they have lunch sometime.
Despite their busy schedules the two developed a cautious social relationship over several months that had evolved into a romance, and by their mutual definition, the first serious one for both of them. Both Michael and Rachel, being intensely private by nature, found going off for an occasional weekend in a large cosmopolitan city near their professional work the ideal way to spend some quality time together away from the demands of their work and the eyes of their curious colleagues.
*
For Rachel, the panoramic view from the Top of the Mark Hopkins Hotel of the San Francisco skyline, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the placid waters of the bay at sunset highlighted the perfect way to end a relaxing weekend with friends. As she and Michael Ryan had sipped their drinks and shared stories of their separate weekend experiences, Rachel had felt as relaxed and genuinely happy as she had felt in years. Stanford, demanding as it could be, was miles away from the CIA and her cabinet level job of Director of National Intelligence. That Sunday evening with a trusted friend and newfound lover, she had felt like a regular citizen in a public place, with no beeper and no bodyguards watching furtively from the shadows for potential threats. Rachel had decided on a second glass of an excellent Rombauer California Chardonnay, but Michael simply nursed his drink saying that he had a procedure scheduled Monday as well as a staff meeting at noon.
“Did you and your friends get all shopped out, Rachel?” Michael had asked gently.
“Of course,” Rachel had responded lightly. “I indulged myself with a Hermes scarf, which I took, but I had the rest of the stuff shipped to the office. Julia and Carla hit it harder than I did.”
“How was your ballgame?”
“Well, this was the annual surgical residents’ outing. We watched the Giants edge into the playoffs. Then we had a great dinner at Ernie’s Saturday night. Kind of like a little team-building and bonding offsite. They all went back to Palo Alto today but I decided to hang around the city and take in the sights...waiting for you,” he had said, raising his glass in a friendly toast.
“Speaking of dinner, let’s go downstairs and walk to this little Italian place I found not too far from here. Then we’ll come back and have a nightcap and get cozy.”
“The cozy part I like,” replied Rachel. “My God, it seems all we did Saturday and Sunday was shop and eat, but okay.”
As Michael and Rachel had ridden the empty elevator down to the street level Rachel leaned her head onto Michael’s shoulder and said in a low voice, “Michael, for the very first time in my life I feel like I’m embarking on a serious romance. There’s no stress, no conflicting personal agenda, no doubts about the timing. I mean it’s dreamy for me. I’ve never been this way before. Everything seems...right and good. Do you feel the same way?”
“I’ve never had the time or the inclination to be deliberately settled,” replied Michael. “I’ve been so absorbed in my practice, I just couldn’t meet the right person. I didn’t want to just settle, like some of my colleagues,” he continued. “I’m sure you know by now that a person can actually get married to Stanford...or Harvard, or Michigan...whatever, as an institutional companion. I think I was falling into that rut until I met you. Knowing you has changed me.”
As they had eaten their dinner the conversation continued. “Rachel, I don’t know what your long-term plans are about Stanford, but my gut tells me you probably won’t stay here forever. In my view this is a great midpoint stop for you, but you won’t be intellectually challenged enough here to stay for more than a few more years.”
Rachel had smiled meekly in acknowledgment of Michael’s remarks, but had made no direct reply other than to say, “Okay, now that you’ve read my palm, what about you, Doctor?”
“Well, I stay in touch with Spenser, and I’ve had some tentative feelers from a Mayo trustee. Those would be big jobs but Phoenix or Rochester would not be a move up for me geographically or weather-wise. So, I think I might be getting dug-in here.”
*
Events after that were a blur for Rachel and she tried to shut down all conscious thoughts of everything after leaving the restaurant. The here and now were difficult enough as she struggled to think of the days and weeks ahead, recovering and adjusting to the loss of Michael. In her subconscious mind it was not lost on her that she might have been the target of the attack and, as such, a tragic contributor to Michael Ryan’s death.
CHAPTER 2
INVESTIGATION AND FRUSTRATION
“The terrorist and the policeman both come from the same basket. Revolution, legality - countermoves in the same game.”
Joseph Conrad
*
FBI Director Clayton Wheatley, joined by Raymond Rollins, Director of National Intelligence, sat in the Oval Office as they briefed President Jonathan Braxton, and his Chief of Staff, Philip Johnson.
Director Wheatley began. “Mr. President, gentlemen, yesterday - last night actually - there was what obviously was an attempt on the life of Rachel Hunter in downtown San Francisco. She escaped with non-life threatening wounds, but the man she was with, a Doctor Michael Ryan, a neurosurgeon at Stanford University Medical Center, was fatally wounded by shotgun blasts fired from a passing vehicle. Ms. Hunter is recovering in a hospital in San Francisco. There can be no doubt, however, that she was the target. She was only spared because she was walking on the inside of Doctor Ryan and at least one of the shotgun blasts deflected off a parked vehicle that was between them and the shooter. I don’t want to get too far out in front of this investigation, Mr. President, but personally and privately, I am recommending that we view this as an act of domestic terrorism, an assassination attempt.”
After a moment of collective silence, a clearly angered Braxton spoke. “Do we have any motive or possible subplot here? Can we rule out a vendetta against Doctor Ryan?”
Director Wheatley answered with certainty. “He’s clean as a whistle, Mr. President. No record whatsoever. He was a hero within the Stanford community. We’re checking his credit cards, phone records and IRS status, but from what I’ve heard so far, we’re going to find nothing on this guy that would even suggest a hit - and that’s what it was, sir.”
Braxton continued, somewhat lamely. “Well, I guess it would be naive to think that someone or some group didn’t have it in for Rachel. I was always a little nervous about her walking out of here, but that’s what we all do at some point. She asked that we take down her security after the first few months.”
“Anything else we should know about Doctor Ryan?” asked Braxto
n.
Ray Rollins spoke up next. “Mr. President, Doctor Ryan’s brother works as a covert operator for the CIA. This information should not leave this room.”
“Can you bring him in for the funeral, Ray?” asked Braxton.
Ray Rollins shifted in his seat slightly before answering, “Probably not, sir. There’s too great a potential for someone on the other side to make a connection through the news concerning a former high-ranking intelligence official and one of our covert operators breaking routine. Moves by these people have to be planned well in advance so there’s no potential for a tip-off. Our people learn this during the early days at The Farm. Breaking cover, unless it’s a company emergency, is just too dangerous.”
*
Ray Rollins and his FBI counterpart met privately in Wheatley’s office in the J. Edgar Hoover FBI headquarters’ building late in the afternoon after meeting with President Braxton.
Wheatley began. “Ray, I know Braxton and Rachel Hunter were close and he’s sore as hell about this attempted hit. But as much as Doctor Ryan was the victim, you and I both know she was probably the intended target. With the Doctor’s impeccable record, there’s no motive for anyone to kill him. Right now San Francisco P.D. is the lead investigative agency on this. Neither of the victims is a current federal official. I think we can offer them investigative help, but this is not - yet, anyway - a Federal crime. I don’t want to barge in there like a bull in a china closet and create a bunch of bad feelings or ill will.”
“Does the P.D. have any good leads?” asked Rollins.
“Fortunately they have some surveillance video at a stoplight near the scene that a car blew through immediately after the shooting. They’re processing it right now. The audio of the gunshots and the video of the speeding car are only seconds apart. It might not hold up in court, but at least it’s a lead. I think if we find the car and any ancillary evidence, we’ve got at least a person of interest.”
“Well, outside of professional sympathy, I doubt this is a CIA matter right now,” replied Rollins. “Wish we could do more. If we can help, even if it’s a little edgy, don’t hesitate to ask. I want these guys caught and dealt with.”
“Fat chance in California, Ray.” responded Wheatley, smirking.
“Right, especially in San Fran,” agreed Rollins. “Anyway, call me if we can help out.”
*
Doctor Michael Ryan’s memorial service took place outdoors in the Stanford quad ten days after the murder. In spite of her wounds that were still bandaged but healing, Rachel Hunter, wearing dark slacks and a grey, long-sleeved blouse and dark blazer, gave the final eulogy of the day. Expressing the fact that she and Doctor Ryan were “close friends with mutual interests”, primarily those of advancing the reputation of Stanford University being a World class center for the advancement of the physical and intellectual aspects of the human condition, Rachel was upbeat and positive about Doctor Ryan’s accomplishments and had nothing to say about the criminal aspect surrounding his death.
As the subdued public reception following the service was breaking up, FBI Director Clayton Wheatley, who had travelled to Palo Alto as President Braxton’s personal representative, asked Rachel if she could meet privately with him in her office. She graciously and readily agreed.
After an appropriate period of expressing condolences and ensuring that Rachel was emotionally and physically capable of having a meaningful discussion of the recent tragedy, Wheatley got down to business.
“President Hunter, I have had daily discussions with San Francisco P.D. relative to this matter. I’m sure it comes as no surprise to you that, in spite of the tragic death of your friend, Doctor Ryan, this was intended as a hit against you. Furthermore, since there is no criminal connection with you or Doctor Ryan, we are, for internal purposes, classifying this as an act of domestic terrorism.” Rachel Hunter simply nodded slowly in stoical silence as she had already accepted this as a highly probable assumption, and the F.B.I. Director’s statement merely validated this.
“If it’s any help at this stage, President Hunter,” continued Wheatley, “we are working on some good surveillance data that looks promising in identifying people who were driving in your vicinity at the time of the shooting. I can’t say any more at the moment, but we will keep you in the loop when we develop some solid facts. Meanwhile, the President has arranged for private security for you for the next month or so. You will have a driver and three security agents who will be protecting you on a 24-7 basis.”
“Thank you, Director, for all your consideration. And please tell President Braxton that I appreciate his concern. I’m taking a week off and heading for Canyon Ranch in Tucson to unwind from this. I guess the security guys won’t mind that,” Rachel answered with a weak smile. “I’m sure you understand this has been quite overwhelming. Michael was a very good person, and I am sadder for his aging mother and father than I am for me.”
“If there’s nothing else at the moment, Doctor Hunter, I need to catch a plane back to Washington.”
“Director Wheatley, there is something else, something sensitive. When you see Ray Rollins or Marilyn Mitchell, would you pass this note on to either? You may be aware that Michael had a brother working for the CIA. If it is possible, I would greatly appreciate it if someone could get this note to Michael’s brother, wherever he might be. It would mean a great deal to me.”
Wheatley took the note and placed it in his jacket pocket. “Of course, ma’am, I’ll do my best.”
*
Two days after Clayton Wheatley returned to Washington he was patched in to a conference call from the Commissioner of the San Francisco P.D., the San Francisco District Attorney, and the lead investigator on the Michael Ryan murder case. After a few preliminaries, the Commissioner asked his investigator to complete the briefing.
“Gentlemen, Director Wheatley, we’ve got a positive I.D. on what has to be the shooter’s car, and we know who the owner is. We know that this car and three occupants returned to the home of the owner about thirty minutes after the time of the shooting. They removed what appears to be a long object covered with a blanket from the car, and quickly entered the house. We also know that there was a great deal of loud conversation coming from the house after they returned.”
Wheatley broke in and asked the investigator, “How do you know all this? This doesn’t sound like a coincidence, inspector.”
The District Attorney answered Wheatley’s question, “We’ve had this car and the owner under surveillance for some time for possible human trafficking and drug distribution, but we still don’t have anything solid enough to get an indictment, Director. These guys are Pakistanis here on student visas. One actually lives in L.A., and the other two are known to live in this house. I would prefer not to reveal how we have this evidence from the day of the shooting as, in doing so, we would have to reveal valuable surveillance and human assets that would be compromised if we needed to use them in court. If we couldn’t get an indictment, this would be a lose-lose for us, Director.” As a former prosecutor himself, Wheatley knew this was an inconvenient truth.
Wheatley responded, “What else do you have gentlemen? Surely we can come up with something. I mean, if it looks like a duck, and walks like a duck, it’s probably a duck.”
The inspector answered. “Sir, these guys always go to this same mosque every Friday afternoon. I have an idea, but it might be a little edgy. Commissioner, may I speak freely and off the record?”
“Go ahead, Inspector, I’ll only listen with one ear.”
“Director, if we can get one of your FBI investigators to enter the house when these guys are gone to the mosque and take one of the spent shells from the shotgun - assuming there is a shotgun, we might be able to get a print and run it through the immigration database. This could be another nail in their coffin.”
“Mr. Prosecutor, what do you have to say about this?” remarked Wheatley.
The D.A. scoffed and nearly laughed out loud before res
ponding. “Well Director, I don’t even know why I’m in on this conspiracy. Outside of having no warrant, which I could never get, and federal agents’ breaking and entering a private residence gathering evidence possibly protected by Constitutional guarantees, I see no problems. Not only would I fail to get an indictment, but I would also probably be disbarred and laughed out of town. Sorry, boys, ethically I can’t be a party to this.” With that the D.A. clicked off.
“Obviously not a sporting man,” deadpanned the Commissioner.
After the D.A. rang off, it was left to the other men to devise a path forward for their informal investigation.
Wheatley began by saying, “Look, I’ve been doing this a long time, and I know when an investigation’s stuck. This one is classic. The only clue we have is a bunch of guys here from Pakistan on student visas driving a surveilled car that go to an Islamic mosque every week. The San Francisco P.D. has damning surveillance, but the D.A. doesn’t think it’s enough for an indictment and doesn’t want to risk compromising his intel source. If I were a judge I wouldn’t give you a warrant either, so let’s do this the old fashioned way...break in and snoop around.”
Director Wheatley advised the police investigator that he “had a couple of guys he could send out who wouldn’t be known locally.”
Three days later, early Saturday morning, Wheatley’s clandestine investigators dumped a treasure trove of evidence on the San Francisco P.D.’s investigator’s desk. Of course, none of this would be admissible in court, but it painted a clear picture of the culpability of the three Pakistanis who were living in this run-down house in Antioch, California.
“My two guys and I entered the house on the pretext of looking for a natural gas leak after the three occupants left for the mosque late yesterday. Here’s what we found,” explained Randy Moore, one of Director Wheatley’s special investigators, as they were known within the hierarchy of the FBI.