The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) (10 page)

“Possible,
but it’s hard to see her committing suicide. She was doing well by herself.
Half of her husband’s ten million dollars was about to fall into her lap. Her
husband is the only one who benefits from her death.”

“I
see your point.” O’Brien moved his head back and forth, thinking hard. “It
could be her, or her husband, or maybe a third suspect who we know nothing
about right now.”

Miller
nodded.

“And
we may never know. I say let’s go to Wall Street,” O’Brien said with a tone of
finality, “and talk to the husband.”

“I’m
quite positive,” Miller stood up, “that the husband is involved in all this, in
one way or the other.”

SAMUEL
WAS DRIVING down Highway 85 in Atlanta during rush hour, heading for
Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. He had a Paris flight to catch.

He
had planned to take the trip with Irene. But now, he was going to the City of
Love with her blood on his hands.

Irene
had been a good girl. To Samuel, good meant useful, and he knew how to use
people – men or women. But Irene was different. Samuel had almost fallen in
love with her. He had already made plans about how to get rid of Irene’s rich,
Wall Street husband. A hit by a cabbie with a fictitious license plate, or a late
night mugging gone wrong – Samuel just had to plot out a few more details. He
knew he was good at hatching plans.

But
then that stratagem had not even been necessary.

The
murder of the DEA administrator in the park had made Irene ask more questions
than he was prepared to answer.

Were
you in my condo the day the DEA administrator was killed? Did you hear the
gunshot? I think someone was in my condo. Do you have any idea who it could
be? 

Samuel
did not like being asked questions and much less by a woman.

Does
she suspect I have anything to do with the murder?
Samuel had
wondered.

Even
if she did, it didn’t really matter – her life would end; Samuel had decided.

Killing
Irene was a cakewalk. A pull on a silenced Glock’s trigger was all that was
needed.

The
post-murder cleanup was harder. Wiping the floor, placing the gun to make it
look like a suicide, acid-burning the serial numbers from the firearms – it was
a lot of work.

Leaving
the long-range rifle, the one that Doerr had used to kill the DEA Administrator,
in her condo had been a marvelous idea. The FBI would be scratching their heads
like six-year-old boys facing a hard riddle.

Samuel
chuckled as his SUV crawled toward the airport parking lot. He cursed the
Atlanta traffic, its citizens, and the entire city.

When
Samuel entered the international terminal at the airport, it was barely twenty-five
minutes from his flight time. If he missed his plane, it would have been a
first in his life, but he made the flight. 

SAMUEL
REACHED CHARLES-de-Gaulle Airport early in the morning. To save money, he
usually stayed at a three-star hotel whenever he visited Paris. But this time
he felt good about himself and checked into the Carlton Ritz.

His
cab crawled through the heavy morning traffic, and he reached the hotel at
eight. After a shower, a couple of hours’ sleep and heavy lunch of steak, he
felt lethargic. He went down to the hotel bar and gulped down two large glasses
of wine, hoping to find a woman to keep him occupied. But he was out of luck.
He thought of Irene, who he had met a year back, in a New York single’s bar.

It
had barely been two weeks since he had killed her.

He
smoked a cigar and returned to his room. He dialed a number for an escort
service that he had been given furtively by the concierge. Within an hour,
there was a knock on his door. Samuel opened it and was disappointed by the plump
woman who stood in front of him. One of his skills was that he could tell a
woman’s age, even if she wore an inch of lipstick and a hundred layers of
makeup on her face. 

The
woman looked to be around forty-seven, to Samuel. But he didn’t have enough
energy to send her back and call for another one.

“Come
on in,” he said in French, a language he knew quite well, and held the door
open.

As
she passed him, she flirtatiously touched his cheek. He gave her a slap on her
ass over her black leather skirt. Samuel went inside the toilet. After relieving
himself, he sprayed some eau de toilette on his shirt and behind his ears. When
he came out, the prostitute was filing her nails. She stood up and headed for
the bathroom.

Ten
minutes and some meaningless talk later, the woman took off her clothes and lay
on the bed, waiting for Samuel. When Samuel got on top of her, his manhood was
limp, and he blamed it on her age.

Forty-seven.

“I
asked for a thirty-year-old,” Samuel grumbled.

“I’m
thirty-three,” the woman snapped, which Samuel knew was a lie.

“I
hate liars.” He pressed his nose on hers and grabbed her shoulders.

“It’s
your fault,” the woman said angrily and clenched her teeth. “You’re not man
enough.”

“What
did you say?” In a moment, Samuel was taken over by rage and felt the rush of
blood into his brain. His hands closed around her neck, and his face became red
with fury.

“I
said you’re a prick,” the woman said and pouted. “Now let me go.”

“You
are not going anywhere, bitch!” he said as he tightened his fingers around her
throat. “I want my money’s worth.”

The
woman looked scared and started fighting to get away from under him. But
Samuel’s strong hands were constricting her windpipe. Her hooks and jabs were
as useless as the kicks she delivered to Samuel’s strong hip.

He
pressed his nose harder on hers as his hands held tight around her neck. The
woman grabbed his hair with both of her hands, but it did not affect him. He
continued to choke her.

Minutes
later, her body went limp; her legs lay spread and palms pointed to the
ceiling.

Samuel
finally let go and got off the woman. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, he
realized what a mess he had just created. He panicked; in just two weeks he had
killed two women. Thought of jail flashed through his brain. He had seen a prison,
and what he hated the most about it was that an inmate had to do his toilet
business in public. Anyone could pass by and see him like that. Moments later
he smiled to himself.
I ain’t going to no jail
.

In
his mind, he quickly went through the things he needed to do for cleanup. First
he wrapped the woman’s body in the bed sheet. Then he made a few phone calls.

CIA
DIRECTOR STONEWALL stared at the computer monitor. For the third time, she was
going over the agenda of her three p.m. meeting.

Stonewall
had dithered when President Campbell’s aide called her two years ago, asking
her to become the first female director of the CIA. Her professor husband was
all for it, but her mother and sister, her confidants, were against it. She had
a twelve-year-old son and a nine-year-old daughter. The kids had no opinion on
whether Mom should accept the new job, but the older one insisted that Mom
should be home by seven p.m. and should spend the weekends with him.

Stonewall
had mixed feelings about her two-year service as the National Security Officer
under the previous president. She had liked the responsibility but hated the
constant bickering among politicians and their urge for power and
micromanagement.

Ultimately,
her husband had won, and she headed for the confirmation hearing at the Senate.
During the three-day-long hearing, she was pounded by all sorts of insults and innuendos,
especially from Senator Brushback. It was almost as if he had a personal agenda
against her. She knew that the only appointee he had so vehemently opposed was
Chuck Jones, the now deceased DEA administrator.

After
being confirmed for the director position, the friction with Brushback only
increased, and the senator went after her every chance he got. As director, Stonewall
decided to keep the deputy director, Lazarus West, who was picked for the
position by the previous head of the CIA. Lazarus was a trusted, experienced
hand, who had worked with the agency for more than twenty years. He was revered
by many in the agency and feared by most.

But
Lazarus was due to retire within a year, so finding a replacement was a top
priority for Stonewall.

She
had called for a short meeting with Lazarus right before the three p.m. call.
She swung round in her chair as Lazarus walked in her office and took a seat.

“Can
you take care of the three p.m. call?” Stonewall was quick to the point. “I
have a more important meeting to attend.” She lied. She just wanted to avoid
another face-off with Brushback.

“No
problem,” Lazarus said, grinning. “Who else will be there?”

“Senator
Brushback, two other senators, one of our field officers in Tehran and an
Israeli agent from Mossad named Nadav. The meeting is about an operation Nadav
was about to embark on, in Iran. We have asked him to hold off till our own man
gives the go-ahead.”

“What
if Mossad doesn’t listen to us? What should we do?” Lazarus asked.

“That’s
why I’m asking you to be at the meeting, to smooth out things with them and
hold off that asshole Brushback. He thinks Mossad should do what we tell them
to do.”

Lazarus
shifted in his chair and adjusted his glasses. “Okay, I’ll do it, but there is
something I need to talk to you about.”

“What?”
Stonewall looked at Lazarus inquisitively and touched her chin.
Quid pro quo
,
she thought.

“There’s
this guy: Max Doerr. He left us three years back, and now he wants to come
back.”

“I
heard about him. He’s hot tempered – shouted at a senator and was forced to
resign, correct?”

“That
is correct, but he was one of the best of the best. His sniping capabilities
are unparalleled. Many of us used to call him ‘the assassin.’”

“But,
if we take him back, won’t that send the wrong message to other operatives?”

“Maybe.”
Lazarus touched the back of his neck nervously.

Stonewall
could see that Lazarus wanted Doerr back desperately. She leaned forward and
asked, “Any other reason why you think we should take him back?”

Lazarus
hesitated and then said, “Yes, there are other reasons. He saved my life once.”

“How?”

“When
Doerr was working in Saudi Arabia, we were due to have a meeting in Riyadh’s
Al-Faisaliah Hotel. I was to meet three Saudi intel agents. A senator was going
to join us as well. Minutes before the meeting, Doerr called me and said there
was a ninety percent chance that a terrorist attack was going to take place in
that hotel. I ignored him, and we were all set to start the meeting, but Doerr
called and warned me again. I didn’t show up and asked the senator not to go as
well. Later, we learned that three gunmen erupted into the conference room at
around the time when we were supposed to have that meeting. The gunmen opened
fire. Nine people died, including two of the three Saudi intel agents. The third
one was shot twice in the chest. We discovered that terrorists had placed some
gas cylinders in the room next to the conference room, but luckily they didn’t
explode. So, yes, I probably owe my life to him.”

“Okay.”
Stonewall clutched a pen. “Let me think about it. I’ll let you know. But for
now, don’t tell him anything.” She turned her attention to the computer monitor
on her desk, indicating the meeting was over.

Ross
Calpone had good people skills. He knew it; plenty of people told him so. He
was neither brave nor physically strong. If he hadn’t cheated in his college
exams, Ross would never have gotten a degree. He was bad with books but good
with people.

After
he graduated from Florida State University, he spent six months by the sea in
Italy, under the sun. Money was not an issue; his father had plenty of it from
his large orange business in the sunshine state. Ross spent months in the Catanzaro
area of Italy, had a local girlfriend for a few months and could speak the
local language passably, in a broken manner.

After
he returned from Italy, his father had wanted him to pursue a career in law
enforcement. The father thought it would make him look good if his son joined the
FBI.

At
five feet six inches, 180 pounds, and with a low GPA, he was not the kind of
person the FBI was looking to recruit.

Ross
applied for a job at the FBI and was rejected after the first interview. After
that, he filled in an application form on the CIA website. He was surprised to
be selected after two tests. Soon he figured out why they selected him.

At
that time, the FBI was working on catching some New York Mafia bosses. They had
the bosses under surveillance and were able to plant a mole within the organization.
The Mafia was involved in money laundering and contract killing, but their big
business was importing cocaine from Columbia. The New York bosses had
outsourced the nitty-gritty of the importing process to those in Catanzaro,
Italy. The Catanzaro people dealt with the bosses in Columbia, and they managed
the ships that sailed from near Bogota and ended somewhere on the shores of
North Carolina, unmonitored by the Coast Guard. Someone from New York would
drive to Carolina in a big van, and the cocaine would later be distributed on the
streets of New York. Money would then move from New York to Rome, laundered
through a business that looked legitimate. The guys in Catanzaro would send the
money to Bogota in small installments. The business had been working smoothly
for years, and the FBI was determined to break it.

With
the information from the mole, the FBI conducted a few raids and arrested many members
of the Mafia but not the top bosses; they were suspicious that the bosses might
have figured out the mole’s true identity, so he had to be taken off the case.   

The
FBI contacted the CIA to help monitor the criminals in Catanzaro, and that was
why Ross was recruited. It was his familiarity with the Catanzaro area and his knowledge
of the Italian language that pushed the envelope in his favor.

After
two months of training in Virginia, Ross was sent to Catanzaro; he was happy to
be back in the area and even tried to contact his old girlfriend. Ross was
given the address of a bar that was frequented by the Catanzaro criminals who
worked with the New York bosses. Ross went to the bar a few times and watched
the men but did not approach them; they looked formidable.

A
few days later, his former Italian girlfriend, Rosa, called back. He went back
to the bar with her, and this time, with a local girl by his side, he felt more
confident. He talked to the men and bought them drinks.

Ross
later spoke to the bosses in Langley about his progress, and it was decided
that Ross and his girlfriend would move to the safe house on the beach.

It
was a two-story house located two hundred feet away from the water,
strategically surrounded by small trees and a high fence. It had no veranda,
and a tiny wooden board was placed at the gate with the words ‘Villa Cicero’
inscribed on it. The house had four bedrooms, two of which held communication
devices and computers, and the third one had weaponry and ammunition. Only the
fourth bedroom had a bed, which was used by occasional guests. Before Ross
moved in, the house was properly cleaned and bugged with tiny video cameras. Some
computers and gadgets were stowed in closets, and some were taken to other
locations.

Two
weeks later, Ross invited his new friends to the beach house. The agency
instructed Ross to tell them that he had a big wine business and was
considering moving to Italy permanently. 

The
Catanzaro Mafia guys started using the CIA safe house as a party place, got drunk,
and told Ross exactly what they did for living and who they worked with. The
people at Langley were watching and listening in real time. Ross wore an
undetectable earbud and microphone. Every step he took, every sentence he spoke,
was being dictated to him from Langley.

One
day, Peter, the big guy among the ruffians, bragged to Ross that he controlled
businesses all over the world and detailed how and where a small ship would
reach American shores, before dancing with Rosa as music blared. After dancing
for a while, Peter became tired and sat on the sofa. Ross sat next to him and quietly
questioned him about how he would be paid for the American shipment. The man
told Ross details about who would send the payments, how many there would be and
to which banks they would be sent.

Langley
listened to the conversation through the tiny microphone lodged inside Ross’s
ear. The CIA passed all that information to the FBI.

Later,
the FBI watched as a van picked up the bags filled with cocaine from the
deserted seashore in North Carolina. The FBI watched the van make a few stops
and drop a few bags at each location. The vehicles made a final stop in
Brooklyn.

The
FBI followed the money transactions that took place between banks in New York
and Rome.

A
few days later, there was a news story on the TV that claimed that the FBI had
managed to infiltrate and bring down a complete network of Mafia and drug lords.

Ross
boarded a plane bound for America the day he was given clearance by the agency.
Once he reached home, he swore that he would never visit Italy again. After a week
off, spent relaxing at his Florida home, he went back to Langley and confronted
his boss. “You’ve got to give me a desk job. I can’t go back to the field.”

“You
have to do at least three field jobs,” his boss replied rudely, “before you can
be considered for a desk job. It was in your employment contract. Go back and
read it. You were trained for operations.”

“I
was shitting in my pants when you guys were giving me instructions and I had to
tell those guys whatever you wanted me to say. Those people were dangerous. If
they’d found out I was a spook, they would’ve killed me right there and then.
Training is something, but standing in front of the enemy, facing death, is
something entirely different.”

“You
were not alone. All our employees do that on a regular basis. Men and women.
You have no choice.”

“In
that case, I will have to resign. I’ll go and work for my dad.”

His
boss frowned and said, “Let me talk to my boss. I’ll get back to you by the end
of the day.”

Ross
would later come to know that his boss had decided to let him go. But when his boss
had discussed it with a senior manager, he was urged to keep Ross on the
payroll, due to the high-profile nature of the case Ross had worked on.

That
first mission had been fifteen years ago, and now Ross had a good life,
managing people at the agency, holding a position just two levels below Lazarus’s
deputy director post. But Ross was an ambitious man, and that ambition grew
manyfold when Brushback became a member of the Senate Intelligence Committee.
His dad had not only made hefty contributions to the senator’s campaigns, but
he had made many of his rich friends contribute as well, and now it was time
for Brushback to return the favor.

IT
WAS A cold but pleasant day in December. Doerr gazed at the naked trees as he
walked with Gayle in Central Park, where hawkers were showing their food items
and tourists were sauntering about.  

Gayle
purchased a hot dog, took a few bites and offered the rest to Doerr. Doerr
bit off a big piece and realized that he was walking by the spot where the
DEA administrator’s body had dropped dead, a month back. The soil around that
place seemed more barren to him. Doerr knew the powerful man was survived by
two teenage children. A pang hit him in the chest. He felt a sudden desire to
tell everything to his wife. He thought he was committing a sin by withholding
things from her. 

“Do
you like it?” Gayle asked. 

“Like
what?”

“The
hot dog, silly.” 

“Yeah,
I like it,” said Doerr and rubbed his palms. 

“Let’s
sit someplace.” 

“Let’s
go over there.” Doerr took her to a corner. When they got there, they realized
the empty bench was covered in ample amounts of bird poop. “Do you want to
sit here or over there?” Doerr pointed to the grass, most of which was dead. 

“Let’s
go there.” Gayle walked to the grass; she sat down, and Doerr followed. 

He
settled next to her with his shoulder touching hers. He could see the CNN
building and the other tall structures around it. 

Doerr
looked into her hazel eyes, took her right hand, and held it between his palms,
and gave it a soft rub. 

“This
is the best time of the year. Don’t you think?” Gayle asked. “The weather is
nice, and people are too. I think we should come here every year during the
holidays. What do you say?”

“Yeah,
we should.” He decided to tell her everything and felt bad that he was about to
ruin the moment for her. But telling her about his last assassination was something
he had to do. The ball of grief in his chest was growing like a monster. He
felt his feet were becoming bogged down in a sea of mud. “Gayle,” he said, “there
is something I have to tell you. I’m just hurting too much, keeping it inside.” 

“What
is it?” Looking concerned, Gayle placed her arm on his shoulder. She gave him a
stare and pursed her lips. “Tell me.” 

“You
must have read about the DEA administrator being murdered, right here in this
park?”

“Yes.
My mother showed it to me. But why are you asking about that?” 

“I…Gayle,
I–” Doerr sighed and lowered his head. 

“What!” Gayle
almost shouted and then lowered her voice. “You what?” 

“It
was me who took the shot, Gayle. From over there.” He pointed to the building
on Fifth Avenue. He held her face in his palms and stroked the tiny gold
earrings that hung from her earlobes. “I killed him from there. But Samuel
duped me into it.” 

“Samuel?”
Her jaw dropped. “Isn’t he your colleague?”

“Was.”
Doerr told her everything. He explained how the whole thing happened and how
the CIA had confirmed that Samuel didn’t work for them anymore and then how his
boss Lazarus threw him out of the Langley office and treated him like a street
dog. 

“Now
I’m not sure what I should do next. I just had to tell you, Gayle. And I’m
sorry I’m putting you through this. But you are the only person I could tell.
Now Samuel has killed the woman who used to live there.” Doerr pointed to the
building again. “The FBI is investigating. Maybe they’ll find Samuel soon.” 

Her
nostrils flared, and her chest heaved up and down with her heavy breathing. Her
face became cherry red; she was angry. “But if they find Samuel, next they will
come for you. Isn’t that true?”

Doerr
nodded. “True. But I didn’t really do anything. I thought I was just following
my boss’s orders.” 

“What’s
going to happen, Max?” Gayle took his hand and pressed it against her cheek.
Her anger started melting, and the color of her face was returning to normal. “I’m
so scared. Did you tell Lazarus?”

“I
told him everything except the fact that I killed the DEA top man.” 

“I
don’t know what to say.” Gayle sat there with her mouth agape. “I feel
terrible.” 

DOERR
WOKE UP late, as usual. Gayle had already left for work. Doerr touched his
smartphone, and the screen lit up. An icon indicated that there was a
message waiting for him. He checked it promptly; it was a message from Lazarus
– asking him to call back.

“Hello.”
Lazarus picked up on the second ring.

“Listen,”
Lazarus said after pleasantries. “I thought about you after you left the other
day. I felt bad. I will never forget that you saved my life in Saudi Arabia. I
talked to my boss, Stonewall, about taking you back into the CIA, and she
finally agreed.”

“I
never said I wanted to rejoin the CIA,” Doerr said tersely. “I just needed some
access to your data and facilities to track Samuel down.”

“But
the only way you can have access is if you become our employee.” 

“So
if I join your agency, you let me go after Samuel?”

“Yes,
but there is a condition.”

“What
is it?”

“The
condition is,” Lazarus cleared his throat, “give and take. You have to complete
a few of our assignments before we let you go after Samuel, and this is a
condition set forth by Director Stonewall herself. We are swamped with field
work, and as you know, most of our employees don’t like to go to the field. Almost
everybody wants to sit on their ass at Langley.”