Titus Ray Thriller Box Set, page 98
part #1 of Titus Ray Series
When Benson made the call to Khouri, I had him put his phone on speaker so I could hear the conversation.
“Mr. Khouri, this is Donovan Bartlett. I believe you’ve been expecting my call?”
“Yes, of course. I spoke with Keever Pike earlier, and he said you’d be calling to set up an appointment. He mentioned he’d be sending his advance man and a photographer by to scout out some locations for the interview.” Khouri paused and gave a short laugh. “Frankly, I was flattered he thought I merited an advance team.”
It was Benson’s turn to laugh, and he did a good job of making it sound authentic. “Well, Keever’s a perfectionist, so he likes for things to go smoothly. Since I was here in D.C. for a couple of days, he thought I could stop by and go over some preliminary questions with you before he arrives in town to do the main interview. He’d also like for our photographer to shoot a few pictures, if you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine, but I’ve already closed the studio for the day. Perhaps we could get together tomorrow. An afternoon appointment works best for me.”
“That’s certainly doable. Keever wants to include a special section on your new studio in the piece. Is it possible for us to meet there tomorrow afternoon?”
“Actually, I’m on my way over to the construction site right now. Would it be convenient for you to meet me over there now?”
Benson pretended to consider this for a few seconds, and then he told him he could be there within the hour. Khouri said he’d be looking forward to it and hung up.
“Okay, we’re in,” Benson said. “We should head over there now.”
“First, we need to do something about your wardrobe. You look like an FBI agent.”
Although Benson had shed his tie before we went in the store to buy the camera, he still had on his blue suit and white shirt.
“We’ll stop somewhere and get you a different shirt,” I said, “maybe a pair of jeans to go with it.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t look so respectable.” He held up the press card of Donovan Bartlett. “I should look more like this picture, a little rough around the edges.”
* * * *
The new home of WK Photography was located off Mt. Laurel Drive near Little Falls Park. After stopping off at a mall, where Benson purchased a pair of khakis and a sports shirt, we drove west on Mt. Laurel and then turned north onto a narrow drive leading up to Khouri’s new studio.
While some clearing had taken place, the architect had obviously designed the building to incorporate the natural landscape, thus providing Khouri with plenty of ambiance to use as a backdrop for his award-winning photography.
In front of the rustic-looking studio, there was a small parking lot, and I pulled into a space next to a black Lexus, which Benson said belonged to Khouri.
“The studio looks finished,” I said. “I wonder why he hasn’t moved out here yet.”
Benson pointed off in the distance, over to a construction site, where the front section of a Southern style mansion was being built. “That must be one of the facades the brochure mentioned. Maybe he’s not moving in until everything’s finished.”
I picked up the Nikon and shot a few pictures. Then, I pointed the camera at an old barn at the back of the studio.
“That barn is definitely not a new construction. It looks authentically old.”
“This used to be farmland out here. It could have been part of the original property.”
The gabled barn was picturesque, like something out of a storybook. While it had obviously been painted red at one time, the sun had bleached the color to a soft rose now. However, the building itself appeared to be in good shape.
If the Eagle Eye was on the property, the barn was definitely the place I’d find it.
Before getting out of the car, I turned to Benson and said, “Even though you changed your clothes, I’m assuming you still have your weapon on you.”
“Yeah, I’ve got my Sig. What about you? Did you bring the Glock you pulled on me the other night?”
“It wasn’t necessary to remind me of that, but, yes, I’ve got my Glock on me.”
One of the first rules the Agency drilled into new recruits at The Farm was never go into a situation without knowing what kind of weapon your partner was carrying.
Benson said, “I know you were just doing a weapons check, but just in case you had something else in mind, don’t forget, we’re only here to collect evidence linking Khouri to the canisters. That’s it. Shoot some pictures, gather enough evidence for a warrant, and we’re out of here.”
“Speaking of shooting, here comes our target now,” I said, pointing over to where the mansion’s façade was being constructed.
When I’d parked the Range Rover in front of the studio, Khouri had been talking to a group of workers over by the site. Now, as the men were getting in their vehicles and leaving the property, Khouri was headed back towards the studio.
As I observed the man walking toward us, I understood why the DDO had been reluctant to tie him to the Navy Yard shooting, much less an attack on Washington.
For the first time, I questioned whether or not the photographer could really be Mohammed after all.
That was the last time I considered that question.
Chapter 51
Walid Khouri bore little resemblance to any terrorist or deep-cover operative I’d ever met. He was dressed in a pair of designer jeans and an equally expensive shirt, and he exuded self-confidence, the type of exalted self-image usually only seen in career politicians or the very wealthy.
If a voice analysis hadn’t positively identified Khouri as the person on the phone giving the orders to Reyes Valario, I would have had trouble believing he was in any way connected to Muslim extremists.
“Gentlemen,” he said, gesturing all around him. “welcome to the new home of WK Photography. I’m Walid Khouri.”
He smiled and extended his hand toward Benson. “Since you’re the one without the camera, I have to assume you’re Donovan Bartlett.”
“That’s right,” Benson said, shaking hands with him.
“Douglas Carlton,” I said, when Khouri offered me his hand.
Khouri more or less ignored me and gave his full attention to Benson, studying him as if he might be considering how to photograph that square jaw of his.
Benson appeared oblivious to this scrutiny and quizzed Khouri about the different venues he was building on the tract of land.
Khouri launched into a short explanation of how the property would be used to create family portraits and wedding photographs providing “exquisite memories lasting a lifetime.”
As he pointed to different sites on the property and described his upcoming construction projects, I aimed the Nikon at the various spots and clicked away.
“Let’s go inside, and I’ll show you my new showroom and studio.” Nodding his head at me, he said, “I’m sure you’ll find it especially interesting.”
I agreed with him; probably not for the reasons he thought.
The reception area of the studio was designed to be a showroom for Khouri’s work. Thus, like the photographer I was supposed to be, I slowly made my way around the room scrutinizing every image and pretending to know all about lights and shadows and camera angles.
Pointing at an enlarged black and white portrait of a family standing in a field surrounded by cows, I told Khouri, “I love what you’ve done with the lighting in this picture.”
Sweeping my arm around the entire room, I added, “In fact, I could spend hours here just studying your technique.”
He gave me a brief smile, but I got the distinct impression he wasn’t buying what I was selling.
Benson took my silly statement as his cue to get Khouri out of the room. “Before we start the interview, I’d love to see the rest of your studio.”
Khouri nodded and gestured at me. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy seeing it as well. My new equipment is all state-of-the-art.”
“Do you mind if I finish looking at these photographs first?”
“Of course not,” he said. “The studio’s right down this hallway. Come join us when you’re ready.”
I waited until the two men had disappeared around the corner, and then I immediately slipped out the front door and headed down toward the barn.
I figured it would take me two minutes to get down there, two minutes to locate the Eagle Eye, and two minutes to get back to the studio before I was missed.
Those calculations were correct.
Unfortunately, I didn’t take into account the locked door.
* * * *
Earlier, when I’d used the zoom feature on the Nikon to take a look at the barn, it had been impossible to see the details on the exterior doors.
Although I’d noticed they were sliding doors, typical of a horse barn, I wasn’t able to see the locking mechanism located just above the door handles.
Now, that lock was staring me in the face.
A key was required to open it, but thankfully, it was a simple cylinder, so I began searching the area for something I could use to pick the lock.
According to my internal clock, I’d been away from Khouri’s showroom for less than three minutes.
As I was about to give up any hope of finding anything, I happened to notice the camera strap around my neck. It had a thin strip of metal at the very end of it, close to the point where the camera was attached to the strap.
I immediately removed it and went to work on the lock.
A minute later, I was able to slide the barn doors open.
I’m not sure what I was expecting.
I knew there weren’t any horses on the property, so it wasn’t as if I were anticipating a barn full of hay and horse tack.
Still, because of the barn’s age, I was at least expecting an onslaught of musty odors, perhaps the sight of bats hanging from the rafters.
Instead, the barn was pristine, with only a slight whiff of stale air, and, in lieu of bats, there was an unmanned aerial vehicle, a Bell Eagle Eye Model 918, parked in front of me.
The drone was painted white with red markings on the nose, wings, and tail, and it looked exactly like the photograph Katherine had sent me.
The shaft of light from the barn door illuminated the aircraft and bathed the wings in bright sunlight. The wings themselves were in their vertical position, looking very much like a couple of soldiers standing at attention.
I put the Nikon on continuous burst mode and walked around the UAV. As a way of documenting the drone’s location, I also included the interior of the barn in some of my shots.
At least seven minutes had passed since I’d slipped out of the studio, and although I knew I should leave immediately, I couldn’t do so until I took a look at one last thing—namely, the vehicle parked behind the Eagle Eye.
I thought I knew what I’d find inside, and I wasn’t far off the mark.
* * * *
It was a cargo van, similar to the Aramex van Pike and I had occupied in Damascus when we were monitoring Naballah’s compound.
I opened the back door and climbed inside.
Katherine had told me the control system for the Eagle Eye was a command module attached to a computer, which sounded simple enough, but the setup inside the van looked a little more complicated than that. In fact, there were two computers and some additional equipment I couldn’t identify.
Next to the second computer, I found a set of instructions. They were written in Arabic, and although I didn’t have time to give them more than a cursory glance, I immediately recognized the second computer wasn’t there to control the aircraft. Its purpose was to monitor the CCTV cameras around Washington.
Presumably, as Walid Khouri was flying the Eagle Eye over the nation’s capital, bombarding the population with chemical weapons, he’d be observing his handiwork in real time on the second computer.
Since the control system for the drone was set up inside the cargo van, I had to believe he had plans to park the vehicle at a location far outside the kill zone on 7/11.
Even though I’d been away from the studio way past my self-imposed time limit, I took out my Agency phone and snapped a couple of photographs of the Eagle Eye as it stood alongside the cargo van.
I sent the pictures, along with a short message, to Carlton’s phone.
My text said, “Found them.”
After sending it, I suddenly realized it was the same message Mitchell had sent the Ops Center about the missing shipping containers—the last words anyone had heard from him.
On that ominous note, I quickly closed the barn doors and made my way back up to the studio.
* * * *
I half-expected Khouri and Benson to be waiting for me in the reception area. When they weren’t, I breathed a sigh of relief and proceeded down the hallway to take a look at Khouri’s studio.
While I knew I’d have to show at least a cursory interest in the new photography equipment, I was determined to let Benson know I’d found enough evidence for the feds to get a search warrant for Khouri’s property, and it was time for Donovan Bartlett and Douglas Carlton to leave the grounds.
When I opened the door to the main portion of Khouri’s studio, where his photography equipment was located, I was surprised to find the place empty.
At that point, I began to get a little uneasy.
I told myself it might be the stark white walls and the dead silence of the place that was making me uncomfortable. But then I noticed something out of place; something sitting on top of a white plastic cube.
I walked over and picked it up. It was an ID badge, Donovan Bartlett’s press badge, the one with my picture on it.
I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but I knew it couldn’t be good.
I took out my Glock and reentered the hallway.
* * * *
The first room on the left was a feminine-looking dressing area, with two large makeup mirrors and some curtained changing rooms.
It was empty.
A similar room for men, in a much different décor, was across the hall.
It was also empty.
When I arrived at the last room at the end of the corridor, there was a sign on the door which read Walid Khouri, Photographer.
That room was not empty.
Although the door was shut, I could hear two people talking inside, and I quickly identified the voices as belonging to Benson and Khouri.
As I stood there listening to what Khouri was saying, I tried to envision where the two men were located in the room. I wanted to pinpoint specifically their position relative to each other and to the door.
Once I’d established that, I burst through the door, pivoted to my right, and aimed the pistol at Khouri, who was standing in front of a desk with a gun in his hand.
He was pointing it at Benson, who was seated in front of him.
The moment he saw me, he fired the pistol directly at Benson, and then he quickly turned and aimed the gun at me.
At that point, I shot him.
His left hand immediately clutched the center of his chest, and he fell to the floor.
He didn’t move after that.
I rushed over to Benson, who was slumped over the chair.
“Where have you been?” he asked, holding onto his shoulder.
“How bad is it?”
“I’ll live. He’s a lousy shot.”
“Either that or I startled him.” I looked at the hole in Benson’s shoulder. “You know he ruined your new shirt.”
“At least I’m alive. He said he was going to kill me.”
“Yeah, I heard that part.”
After I ripped Khouri’s shirt off his dead body and used it to apply pressure to Benson’s wound, he called his division head at the FBI. Once he hung up, he said the feds were on their way, and they were sending an ambulance.
“Please tell me you found something inside the barn,” Benson said, looking down at the blood-soaked shirt. “That way I won’t feel so foolish.”
After giving him the details of finding the Eagle Eye, I said, “Now, it’s your turn. What happened after you left me in the showroom?”
* * * *
Benson said once Khouri had finished showing him the studio, he suggested they go over the background questions for Pike’s interview.
“I was just trying to give you as much time as possible,” Benson said, “but as soon as I brought up the interview, he asked me why I was pretending to be a journalist.”
“He was on to us from the very beginning, wasn’t he? I saw him staring at you when we were introducing ourselves.”
Benson nodded. “Yeah, according to him he was.”
“What did you say?”
“I held up my press badge, which wasn’t very smart I guess, because he immediately grabbed it and made a big deal about it being your picture on the ID.”
Benson paused and appeared to lose his train of thought. His color wasn’t that good, and I thought he might be going into shock.
“Save your strength. I’ll hear the rest of the story later.”
“No, I can finish it. There’s not that much left to tell.”
He laid his head back against the chair cushion. “Before I knew what was happening, Khouri threw the badge back at me and pulled a gun on me. After that, he demanded I give him my weapon. When I asked him why he thought I was carrying a gun, he told me a newscaster had identified me as an FBI agent when they were doing live broadcasts of the Navy Yard shooting.”
“Of course,” I said. “I should have thought of that earlier. Khouri must have watched those videos numerous times. You were front and center on several of the news channels.”
“Don’t blame yourself. I didn’t think of it either, and I’m twice the detail person you are.”
“I can’t argue with you about that.”
“He demanded to know what we were doing on his property. At that point, I decided it didn’t matter if I told him the truth, and frankly, I wanted to see how he’d respond. When I told him the FBI had evidence connecting him to the Navy Yard shooter, he seemed genuinely surprised at this information.”
