The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) (19 page)

“Sorry,
boss. But we don’t have that much cash. And that’s why I’m calling you.”

“Let
me turn my laptop on. The fucking cash will be in your account in less than an
hour. I want to see Raafiq freed within twenty-four hours.”

“I
will do my best, boss.”

“Now,”
Halim said, “do you have a plan to get Raafiq out of France?”

“Yes,
boss. We made a plan already. I will drive Raafiq out of the country myself. He
will be disguised as my wife in traditional Muslim dress.”

ROSANIA
WAS PICKED up by a black sedan at exactly six thirty p.m. Inside the vehicle,
there was another man, apart from the driver, who gave her the truth serum and
told her how to administer it.

The
sedan dropped her at the bar thirty minutes later. The bar was in an office
area, and the road was nearly deserted. The sun had set nearly an hour ago,
leaving the place at the mercy of the lights hanging from the tall posts that
stood exactly ten meters apart.

The
bar was between a bank and a restaurant. The door was made of dark glass with a
red neon ‘open’ sign on it. From outside, the bar looked like another
restaurant. Rosania could tell that it was a secret bar where local men came to
booze.

Rosania
wore black jeans and a loose striped shirt, underneath which she had tightly
wrapped bands that flattened her breasts. She wore a fake mustache and beard to
give her a manly look and hide her femininity. 

She
put her hand inside her jeans pocket and pulled out a photo and took one last
look at Ahmad’s picture. She pushed open the door. Inside, two men stood in
traditional attire and checked her appearance. The men nodded and showed her
inside.

She
walked in and took a quick mental scan of the area, where about thirty patrons
were sitting and drinking. There were six tables with four chairs around each
of them, most of them occupied. About fifteen stools lined the bar, behind
which three bartenders stood serving alcohol.

The
bartender came by to take her order. She simply pointed to the picture of a
beer bottle, indicating that was what she wanted. She did not want to talk.

She
saw Ahmad, who was enjoying a glass of red wine, sitting alone on a stool.
Other customers were talking and enjoying their drinks. Some were alone. In the
opposite corner, two men sat in
thobe
, drinking and engaged in some
serious talk.

Rosania
sipped her beer and threw Ahmad a few stares, and Ahmad looked back at her.
The
plan is working.

She
was feeling tight in her bladder, but she knew it would be too much to handle
in a men’s room. Bathrooms in such places were usually not well maintained
anyway.

Rosania
finished her beer, took out a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and looked
around. It was time for action. She held the cigarette pack in one hand; she
gave an impression that she was searching for a lighter. When Rosania looked at
Ahmad, the man was staring at her. She slowly rose from her chair and proceeded
toward him.

The
man had a thick nose, but because of the size of his beard, it was not conspicuous.
He wore a white tunic with large chest pockets, out of one of which he took out
a gas lighter and offered it to Rosania as soon as she reached him.

She
lit her cigarette and let out some thick smoke. She started to talk, saying how
she found Dubai to be such a comfortable place and everyone was so friendly.

Ahmad
took a sip of his drink. “People here help out each other all the time. And if
an outsider needs anything, we help out in every possible way.”

Rosania
took another deep drag. “It’s a bit stuffy here. I’m going out to finish
smoking. Do you want to join me?”

The
man rose slowly. Together, two of them walked out of the bar. The road was
deserted, just like before when she had entered there. Occasional cabs drove
by. Rosania offered Ahmad the Marlboro pack, and he took a cigarette and lit
it.

“Where
you from?” Ahmad asked.

“I
am from America.” She took off her beard and showed him her face. “I am a
woman. I like drinking and company, but the bar people don’t allow women inside;
that’s why I dressed like this.”

Ahmad
nodded.
Let the charade begin
, she thought. “I am here for business; I
work for an oil company. And the hotel is so boring. So I came here for some
company. Would you like to come and visit me at the hotel?”

Ahmad
appeared to be mulling over the offer.

“We
can have a few drinks. I’ve got a bottle of Le Pin wine and some Cuban cigars.
We can smoke, drink and talk. What do you say?”

Ahmad’s
facial expression told Rosania that the lure of the expensive wine and cigars was
too much for him to resist. Perhaps the biggest allure that hung in the air was
the unspoken possibility of sex. Rosania raised her hand when she saw a taxi
approaching.

Soon
they were in the vehicle, headed for the hotel where Rosania was staying. There
were plenty of people in the lobby when they arrived; some were sitting,
reading newspapers, and some watched the TV and drank coffee or wine.

Rosania
and Ahmad took the elevator to her room.

Once
inside, Rosania said, “Have a seat, please,” and pointed to the recliner chair that
lay three feet away from the large glass window, through which a picturesque
view of the city skyline was visible. It was a fairly big room, maybe thirty by
twenty feet wide. She turned the TV on and moved to the area where the fridge
and the queen-sized bed were. The bed was made up with immaculate sheets and
two large pillows.

Ahmad
sat down and started watching the TV as Rosania took out the bottle of wine.
She poured two glasses and surreptitiously added the serum from her ring into
one glass and glanced at Ahmad, who was amused by whatever was being shown on the
TV. The serum dissolved into the wine without a trace. She was told that the
chemical would make a person lose eighty percent of his ability to imagine.

She
sauntered to Ahmad and handed him the medicated glass. “Here you go. I hope you
like it.”

Ahmad
smiled as he took the glass.

Rosania
took a sip and said, “Tell me whether you like the wine.”

Ahmad
raised the glass to his lips and drank. He waited a few seconds.

“Excellent,”
he said.

“Give
me a sec,” said Rosania and headed for the bathroom. Once in there, she took
her cell phone out and sent a text message to Doerr – ‘man locked in cell,’ the
agreed-upon code phrase.

She
threw water at her face and then dried herself with a soft white towel. She
took two cigars from a box, opened the bathroom door and stepped out. As soon
as she saw Ahmad, she froze.

Ahmad
held a pistol in his right hand and the glass of wine in his left hand. He gave
her a sharp look as she took steps toward him.

“Ahmad!”
she said.

“Tell
me who you work for,” Ahmad said in a menacing tone and pointed the gun at her.

DOERR
RECEIVED THE text message from Rosania. It meant Ahmad was ready for
questioning in her hotel room. Doerr dialed the number of a taxi company and
made arrangements to be picked up. He took his 9mm Glock from his suitcase,
checked its magazine and then tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. He
took a piece of paper from the table. It had all the sixteen questions that he
wanted to ask Ahmad. He folded the paper twice and placed it inside his pocket.
He had memorized all the queries but took the paper with him anyway.

Forty
minutes later, Doerr knocked on Rosania’s door.

Faizan
took an early flight out of Dubai International Airport, heading for Mexico
City. Sitting in an economy seat, he flipped through the pages in his Egyptian passport
as the pilot read the safety procedures, and the flight attendants demonstrated
them. During the long flight, Faizan could not stop thinking about Halim, who
was the epitome of power, success, and sacrifice. Halim could easily carry on a
luxurious life; he could have twenty wives and thirty kids. But that was not
what he had done. Halim had chosen a hard life. He traveled across the globe,
helping brothers, and he had only one wife, for business reasons, and no
children.

Faizan
felt grateful to the mullahs who had put him on the right course. “Your life is
for the purpose for which you were created, my son. Islam teaches you to donate
and give. So give for the cause that the great leader Halim sets for you.
Giving does not exclude giving your own life. And the Great Satan has to be
punished,” the mullah had told him.

Faizan
had realized the truth in what the mullah was saying. He had to sacrifice his
life and walk the path shown by Halim. Faizan was ready to teach the Great
Satan a great lesson, and if he had to give up his own life, so be it.  

Faizan
landed in Mexico City in the evening of the same day. It was an arduous day,
but the next day would be more so, and the day after – even harder. Faizan knew
that.

At
the airport, he was picked up by three rough-looking men. It was all part of
the plan that Halim had explained to him the day before. Faizan got into a
white pickup truck driven by the three men—Diego, Felix and Rodney—in shifts.
Diego was the tallest of them and seemed to be their leader. Felix was a little
shorter, perhaps five feet eight inches tall, and had tattoos all over his
arms, shoulders and even his face. Rodney was the same height, but he was the
friendliest. Rodney spoke to Faizan a lot, in broken English.

Faizan
understood that he was not the only one who was headed for America. Those four
bags in the rear cargo area would be traveling into America along with him. He
had no doubt about what was in those bags – marijuana. He had smoked it in
college a few times; the smell was unmistakable. Rodney explained it to him –
Faizan and those bags would be transported together. Although traveling with
marijuana bags was not detailed in the plan, he did not mind as long as he
reached American soil to do what he had been sent to do.

They
drove through the night and took sporadic breaks. The ride was bumpy, so no one
slept, except Rodney, who slept like a baby, and his head wobbled whenever the
tires ran into a pothole. But as soon as Rodney woke in the morning, he started
talking nonstop till the leader, Felix, shut him down with a loud, ‘Hey, shut
up your fucking mouth. Let me focus on driving!’

They
continued through the day. For lunch, they stopped at a ragtag restaurant in
the middle of nowhere. Faizan and the three men sat down on the bench outside,
and a man came out. Felix ordered chicken tacos for everyone.

After
a short wait, a boy brought out a bunch of tacos on a porcelain plate that was
chipped in a few places at the edge. Faizan picked up a taco and was about to
put it in his mouth.

He
stopped, wondering whether the chicken was
halal
. There was no point
asking the boy, and he remembered what Halim had said – ignore petty things and
focus on the big goal. He started munching the tacos and found he liked them.

Three
hours later, Faizan thought he saw a board that said ‘Welcome to Nuevo Laredo.’
The pickup truck drove through a labyrinth of roads and finally stopped near a
large tree. Faizan saw a river in the background, and he knew it was Rio
Grande. On the other side of the river was America. He tried to look for a road
on the American side, but all he saw was the ground covered by trees and grass.

The
truck stopped near the riverbank, and a boat could be seen nearby. The four men
stood behind the large tree, about fifty feet from the riverbank. It was 4.30
p.m., and the sun was about to go hiding.

“Once
it gets dark, we will drag that boat into the river,” Rodney explained to
Faizan. “We pull those bags from the truck into the boat, and then you and I
will get in, and we will row to the other side. You will get off the boat along
with the bags. Two men will be waiting on the other side to take you wherever
you are headed.”

“Why
don’t we start now?” Faizan asked.

“Are
you crazy?” Rodney pointed at the river. “American police will come out in
boats if they see us. They will shoot at us, try to chase us away. And if we
are really unlucky, they will catch and put us in jail.”

Faizan
had not gone to so much trouble to be caught by the police and placed in a
prison. He sighed and looked back. The truck and the other two men were gone,
leaving tire marks on the grass. He waited, along with Rodney, near the Rio
Grande River for night to fall so he could take the next step closer to his
destination. He peered at the landscape beyond the river.

That’s
America, the Satan
, he thought.

DOERR
KNOCKED ON Rosania’s hotel door and waited. Nothing. He knocked again, and a few
seconds later, he heard footsteps inside. Someone was hurrying around. Suddenly
Doerr felt anxious and worried about Rosania.

He
knocked a third time, and the door opened. A stocky man with a thick beard
stood in front of him, his right hand tucked behind him.

The
man took two steps back. Doerr was sure it was Ahmad.

Ahmad
made a motion with his hand, indicating that he wanted Doerr to come in.

Doerr
raised his foot, which trembled a bit. Doubt pervaded his mind – should he
enter, should he not? The man was obviously hiding some sort of weapon in his
hand. Doerr didn’t give the doubt time to settle in his mind. Rosania was
inside, he was sure, and she was certainly in danger. Doerr scanned the room
visually, as far as he could see – no Rosania.

Doerr
walked past Ahmad, keeping a close eye on him. He could easily take Ahmad down,
but he decided to wait. An elbow to the jaw and a quick knee into the man’s
bulging stomach would have done the job. But he decided to be patient.

“Go
and sit there, please.” Ahmad pointed to the chair at the end of the room.
Ahmad’s voice was as thick as his beard.

Doerr
walked slowly and observed the taut bed sheet.

Good,
no one has been on it lately
, Doerr thought.

Doerr
turned and sat down on the chair.

“Would
you like to drink something? Maybe some wine?” Ahmad asked mockingly. 

“No,
I’m fine.” Doerr understood why Ahmad said it in such a way. He had been lured
into this room, in part, with an expensive wine.

Ahmad
walked forward, a gun in his hand. Ahmad raised it and pointed it straight at
Doerr’s head, and then he asked, “You work for the CIA too?”

Doerr
nodded.

Ahmad
came forward and stood about five feet from Doerr. Ahmad took a quick look
back, as if checking if he was being followed.

Doerr
could still do it. He could stand up and throw a flash kick at Ahmad’s hand,
all in a fraction of a second, and the gun would fly in the air. But he decided
to wait.

“What
you want?” Ahmad pulled out a chair and sat face to face with Doerr, his face
stern and the gun pointed straight at him.  

“We
want to know where Halim is.” Doerr looked down and avoided eye contact with
the man before him. 

“Halim?
Huh?” Ahmad took a quick peek at the TV, and that was the third time Doerr
could have overwhelmed the guy, but, once again, he decided to wait. Doerr knew
the man didn’t have any military training, and from the way he was handling his
gun, Doerr was sure Halim hadn’t given him any training either.

“Yes,
Halim,” Doerr said. “He is about to attack Americans in some way, and we are
going to find him and stop him.”

“You
seem to be a confident man.”

Doerr
said nothing for a few seconds and then asked, “Where is he?” 

“Where
is who?” Ahmad’s tone was commanding. Perhaps he wanted to remind Doerr that it
was Ahmad who was in charge.

“I
was talking about Halim.”

“I
don’t know where Halim is. As a matter of fact, I don’t even know
who
Halim is.”

“Ah-huh.”
Doerr knew the game Ahmad was playing. The nose of the barrel was pointing
straight at him. If fired, it would hit his chest or upper abdomen. Three
different men had confirmed that Ahmad was one of Halim’s close accomplices.
Keep
calm
, Doerr told himself.
This is the wrong time to do some hot-headed
shit.

“Which
office do you work out of?” Ahmad asked. His English was pretty good given that
he had never set foot outside of the Middle East.

“I
beg your pardon?”

“I
asked which CIA office you work from.”

“Oh.
I work at a place called Allentown, Pennsylvania.” That was not a total lie.
Doerr had trained at a place close to Allentown, years back. “Have you ever
been there?”

“Where?
America? No, why would I visit the infidel country? I have a cousin who is now settled
in America. I don’t understand why people even go to America. Why do you think
people go there? Is it all about money?”

“I
was born there,” Doerr said. “So I don’t know why people move there. Maybe they
like the weather or the American food.” Doerr repositioned his legs so that he
could spring out of the chair and grab the man’s throat the next chance he
would get. He had waited long enough.

“No.”
Ahmad shook his head. “I think it’s just the money. People are greedy,
nowadays. And American food sucks. I tried eating a burger and some fries at
one of our malls – awful. I don’t know how you people eat that shit.”

Doerr
looked into Ahmad’s eyes. They were full of hate. Doerr waited for Ahmad’s eyes
to veer away.

“America
gives so much money to Israel,” Ahmad continued. “And Israel does anything
America asks it to do, without shame. They kill innocent children and women in
Gaza and elsewhere.”

“What
do you guys do to your own women? Shackle them. Jail them. Mask them. See.”
Doerr pointed his hand to the TV, where a
burqua
-clad woman was saying
something.

Doerr’s
legs were ready, muscles taut; his mind was focused, fixed on the action ahead.
On the TV, they were showing some protesters participating in a procession in
Jordan. Ahmad took a sidelong view at the TV. That was the opportunity Doerr
had been waiting for. He pushed his butt up and lunged at Ahmad. He grabbed
Ahmad’s wrist and jerked it forcefully, and the gun fell on the carpet. Ahmad
looked shocked at first, but within a second he seemed to recover and kicked
Doerr’s stomach with his knee. Doerr was expecting it, so the kick hurt very
little. Doerr passed his hand under Ahmad’s knee and pulled him up. The chair
toppled; Ahmad fell on the floor, and his white headscarf fell too. Doerr
planted one knee on Ahmad’s chest and jabbed his cheek. Ahmad shrieked in pain.
Doerr jabbed him one more time, and blood appeared on Ahmad’s lips.

Doerr
grabbed him by his thick beard. “What did you do to Rosania? Where is she?”

Ahmad
said nothing and tried to jerk himself free. Unsuccessfully. Doerr hit his face
again. “Tell me; where is she?”

“She
is in the bathroom.” Ahmad’s blood-covered lips moved. “Now let me go.”

Doerr
stood up and picked up the gun quickly. “Stay on the floor. Don’t get up.”

Doerr
walked to the bathroom, keeping the gun pointed at Ahmad. He opened the
bathroom door, and there she was – gagged with her own scarf, sitting on the
white toilet, the lid closed, and her hands tied with another piece of cloth
that went from her hands around the water tank attached to the toilet. She
tried to say something with her muted voice once she saw Doerr, but he did not
understand. He took a quick look at Ahmad, who was still on the floor, and then
quickly freed her.

Fifteen
minutes later, Doerr’s and Ahmad’s positions were reversed; the gun was in
Doerr’s hand, and Rosania sat on the edge of the bed. The drape on the glass
door to the balcony was closed.

“Now,
Ahmad, tell me; where is Halim?” Doerr asked with a serious tone.

“Where
is Halim?” Ahmad mocked and lowered his chin. His beard was covered with blood,
his shirt bloody.

“If
you don’t tell us, you die here,” Rosania said. “No one knows you are here.”

“I
sent a text to my wife. They will be looking for me soon. You all are
foreigners. Once our police catch you, you will be sent to jail with a long
sentence.”

“Don’t
worry about us,” Doerr said cynically. “Did you text the room number?”

“Yes.”

“When
did you send the text?” Rosania asked. “I didn’t see you use your cell phone.”

“I
sent it when I was in the cab.”