The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) (21 page)

Soon,
the police vehicle left the highway and took a narrow road. Traffic became
congested, and the road was riddled with potholes. People walked by on both sides
of the road, and the hawkers advertised their goods, fruits, and some cotton
products, with loud voices.

After
a long, bumpy ride, the police car stopped in front of a three-story building.
The wall was white, and the roof was built in Cape Cod style. No one could be
seen outside the building. All the men, including Doerr, got out of the car.

“That
Ahmad fucker lives in unit number twenty-seven, on the second floor,” Kassem
said, pointing to the building. “Let’s go.”

Doerr
climbed up the stairs, accompanied by the others. They took a right after
coming out of the stairwell and walked through the veranda-style hallway. A man
came out of one of the flats. As soon as he saw the policemen, he disappeared
swiftly back inside his flat. Doerr knew that in this part of the world, people
were more afraid of cops than they were of criminals.

Doerr
and the others were soon at the door of flat number twenty-seven.

Doerr
knocked. No response.

Kassem
moved forward, knocked on the door hard, and then he kicked it. The door shook,
but it did not break. 

Doerr
kicked the door, and it cracked open.

It
was a two-bedroom flat with a modest living room that had a couple of chairs
and a TV. The lights were off. Doerr and Kassem checked the bedrooms – nobody
there.

Kassem
knocked on the next few doors and talked to the occupants in their native
tongue. Doerr did not understand what was being said, but he could figure out
that the news was not good.

“It
appears Ahmad and his family left their flat yesterday, without telling
anything to anyone.” Kassem turned to Doerr after he finished talking to the
neighbors. “It was very unlike them, the man says. This guy was Ahmad’s buddy,
it seems. Ahmad always told him what was going on in his family. This time –
nothing. He says Ahmad is not coming back.”

“What
makes this buddy so sure that Ahmad will not return?” Doerr asked.

“He
left with five large suitcases and took all of his family with him. And they
didn’t tell anything to anyone.”

“But
why did he leave?” Doerr asked Kassem. “Is Ahmad scared of our agency or you
guys?”

“I
don’t think Ahmad left because he was afraid of the CIA or me or my guys.”
Kassem folded his arms over his chest, and the three Emirate policemen gathered
behind him. “He left because he was scared of Halim.”

“What
do you mean?” Doerr asked.

“I
mean Ahmad ran because he knew what Halim would do to him once he figured out
that he had given you secrets. Halim would kill him.” Kassem paused. “How did
you make Ahmad talk to you, anyway?”

“That’s
not important,” Doerr said. “What is important is to find him…can you find
him?”

“We
will try. But I’m afraid the bastard might have left the country.”

FAIZAN
WAS DROPPED at the professor’s house in Augusta, Georgia, at around eight in
the evening. He got out of the car with his duffel bag in one hand and the
black briefcase in the other. The wind was chilly, and he was dog-tired. He
trudged along the walkway, made with slabs of stones, to the main door of the
professor’s house.

Faizan
approached the door, and a light outside went on. He rang the bell and waited.

The
door opened, and a burly man appeared in white pajamas.

“Are
you Faizan?” the man asked.

Faizan
nodded, and the man extended his hand for a shake. “We have been expecting you,
Faizan. I am Hassan. Please, come in.”

“Are
you the professor?” Faizan asked, just making sure he came to the right place.
Hassan was clean shaven, and Faizan estimated him to be about forty-five years
old. He had a healthy figure, except for a bulge around his middle.

“Yes,
young man. Come in, please.”

Faizan
stepped in and stood in the middle of the living room. An expensive-looking
leather sofa and a loveseat sat opposite the TV. There was a large bookshelf
next to the TV.

“Let
me show you your room,” Hassan said and walked toward the carpet-covered
stairs. “Give me that big bag. I will carry it for you.”

“It’s
okay.” Faizan pulled his duffel bag closer to him, as if Hassan were going to
snatch it. “I can manage it.”

Hassan
turned and walked up the stairs; Faizan followed. Hassan led him to a room on
the second floor and opened the door.

“This
is where you can stay for a few days.” Hassan pointed inside the room. “I know
you are tired, but I want you to meet my family. So, please freshen up and join
us for dinner.”

“Okay.”
Faizan was tired and yearned for a long nap. He had spent the last forty-eight
hours in vehicles. The last leg of his journey had been smoother than the first
two, but it was very taxing. He certainly did not want to make small talk at a
dinner table with people he never met before, did not care about, and surely
would not meet again – he would be dead in just a few days and would be with
his seventy-five virgins, if the mullahs were to be believed.

But,
due to the circumstances, Faizan decided to oblige his host.

Five
minutes later, Faizan dragged himself downstairs and sat at the dinner table,
across from Hassan. On the shiny surface of the deep brown varnished wood,
Faizan could see the reflection of the six light bulbs hanging from the crystal
chandelier above.

Faizan
thought the man in front of him was stupid.
Servant of America
.

He
looked at Hassan, and their eyes met. Faizan looked away, unable to withstand
the frosty gaze of the other man.

Soon
the man’s wife and his seventeen-year-old daughter joined them at the table.
Hassan introduced them to Faizan.

“Hello,”
Faizan said politely to Hassan’s wife and picked up his glass, drinking a few
sips of water.

“Faizan
was accepted at Georgetown University,” Hassan said with a smile. He turned to
his daughter. “See, Zarin, Faizan graduated with honors in Computer Science.”

Zarin
giggled and said, “I’m studying computers too…at my school.” She wore glasses
with a thick plastic frame and a silver necklace half hidden by her T-shirt.
Her hair was reddish, obviously dyed.

Hassan
shook his head. “It’s not the same. It is as if you are learning the ABCs,
whereas Faizan is an expert.” Turning to Faizan, he said, “Tell her what your
project was on.”

The
man’s wife, short and fat, so far busy bringing the food from the oven to the
table, said, “Ahh, don’t talk about serious matters now. Let us enjoy dinner. I
made goat curry.” She turned to Faizan. “I hope you like it.”

Faizan
nodded.

“Faizan,
sit with her later.” Hassan jerked his head toward his daughter. “Teach her a few
things before you leave.”

“I
will, don’t worry,” said Faizan and focused on the food. He looked at the
professor’s daughter. First he felt an attraction, but then the feeling turned
to disdain.
She certainly needs some lessons.
To Faizan, her dress of
white shorts and a pink T-shirt was inappropriate. She had no respect for the elders.
She was eating in front of seniors and giggling at the same time.
She has to
be taught a few things, here. No, she needs to be taken to Mecca and trained
properly.

Faizan
took the white rice and some goat curry from the bowl and placed them on his
white porcelain plate. As he started mixing them with his bare hands, the dirty
look from the young girl did not evade his notice.

“Faizan
will be here for four more days,” Hassan said.

“Three,”
Faizan corrected Hassan.

Turning
to his daughter, Hassan said, “Show him around the town if you have some time.”

“Okay,”
she said and turned her attention to the smartphone in her hand, smiling after
reading whatever she was looking at.

After
dinner was finished, Faizan went back upstairs to his room, sat on the bed, and
took his shirt off.

He
opened the red duffel bag, where all the parts of his two AK-74 rifles were
stored; everything was still there. He opened the black briefcase – the cash,
his passport, and the handguns were intact. Halim’s instruction was to throw
away the passport after entering the US, so that if he was caught somehow, they
wouldn’t be able to identify him.

Keep
the passport for now,
he told himself and locked the
briefcase. He sealed the duffel with a small lock and key, put the key in his
shorts pocket, and then jumped into the bed.

The
next morning he woke up to the soft sunlight that came in through the white window
drapes. He rubbed his eyes and wondered where exactly he was. Within seconds,
he recollected everything that had happened during the last few days. The
flight to Mexico City, the long ride to Nuevo Laredo, the chicken tacos at the
restaurant on the way, the dark night ride across the river on the makeshift
boat and finally the car ride to the professor’s house.

It
had been a long and laborious trip so far but successful. The next phase would
be long too and even more strenuous – he would have to drive and do other
fatiguing work and then make the ultimate sacrifice.

He
closed his eyes, hoping to catch some more much-needed sleep.

Doerr
called Louder for updates; there was good and bad news. Egyptian authorities
located two of the men named Faizan, whose visas had been rejected recently in
Egypt. But the bad news was that Louder still refused to issue the APBs for the
remaining three Faizans.

Louder
needed definitive proof. “I have been burned before by issuing too many too
soon, Doerr. I’m not doing it this time.” Louder’s voice was firm, and it had a
tone of finality to it.

Doerr
knew he would not be able to change Louder’s mind, so he hung up and thought
for a while. He liked to do things himself, but this was an exceptional
situation. He hated it, but he had no choice and had to call Lazarus to get
some help from the top.

Doerr
made the call, and Lazarus picked up after three rings. “I heard you made some
good progress. Good job, Max.”

“Yes.
I got a name. His name is Faizan. We know who he is. The only problem is there
are a couple of guys with that name, but we have their photos.”

“Yes,
I know. I read your report. What do you need me to do?”

“Well,”
Doerr said. “The FBI guy, Louder, is refusing to issue the APBs, and I need
some help on that.”

“FBI,
huh?” Lazarus said sarcastically. “When do they listen to us?”  

“We
need to spread the info and be on the lookout for this man. In this case, it
will be all three guys.”

“Okay.
I will sort it out. If needed, I will get Director Stonewall involved. Anything
else?”

“Yes.
If and when Faizan is located in America, I want Rosania and me to be flown in
immediately, and he should be handed to us.”

“That
might be a problem. As you know, any domestic terrorism matter will be handled
by the FBI.”

“But
this case originated abroad,” Doerr said with desperation. “So it belongs to
the CIA.”

“Max,
let’s not jump the gun too soon. I will see what I can do if and when this
Faizan guy is caught.”

FAIZAN
SLEPT THROUGH most of the first two days of his stay at the professor’s house.

Jet
lag
,
he thought. Until that point, other than entering the country illegally, Faizan
knew he had not done anything illegal. But on the third day, that would change.

He
woke up early. He slid out of the bed. Before doing anything else, he put his
knees on the floor and prayed for twenty minutes.
Let the fruit of all hard
work ripen, and I be able to deliver the message to the Great Satan
. Faizan
prayed.
For the rest of the world, let me be known as the disciple who
carried out the Almighty’s wish.

Shortly
after, Faizan lazily descended the stairs and stood in the living room. He
could sense that the professor had already left for work. The professor’s wife
was doing something in the kitchen in a hurried manner. She wore a pair of black
pants and a blue shirt. Faizan knew she was about to head out for work.

“This
is what we have today.” The wife placed a white plate on the dinner table. It
had four pieces of toast on it, and then she heated up a cup of coffee in the
microwave, placing it next to the white plate.

“That’s
more the than enough,” said Faizan and threw her a big smile.

“If
you need anything, ask Zarin, please,” she said, jerking her head upward,
indicating that Zarin was in her room upstairs, and then she exited through the
door.

Faizan
smiled to himself and sat down to enjoy the meal, which he decided would be his
last one in the house. The coffee was stale, and he cursed the professor’s wife
silently.
She did not have the courtesy to attend to a guest’s comfort. She
is no Muslim.

He
lifted the second piece of toast to his mouth and heard soft footsteps – Zarin.

“Morning,”
she said and headed for the kitchen. She opened the fridge, looking for
something for breakfast.

“Morning,”
he replied and looked at her rear end.
If she were a bit more religious,
then she would be a good wife for me
, Faizan thought. But immediately, he
chided himself for thinking about the worldly things.

“I
will take you to the museum today,” she said as she put her coffee cup in the
microwave.

“Don’t
bother. I’m not in the mood. Feeling tired today. I will go back to bed after
this.” He pointed to his plate.

“Okay.”
She took the coffee and headed upstairs.

Faizan
finished his toast and took a last sip from his coffee cup, and then he walked
out of the house and stood at the front door and took a deep breath.

It
was a beautiful place; there was no denying that. The street was lined by huge
houses, and each house was endowed with large front and back yards. The asphalt
on the road was deep black. Faizan knew that a house in this sort of place in
Cairo would cost a fortune. He sighed and returned back inside the house and
started up the stairs that led to his bedroom.

“Faizan,”
Zarin said from behind him, which almost startled him. 

He
was on the second or third step of the stairs. He turned and figured that she
was sitting at the dining table.

“Yes?”
he said. “Don’t you have school today?” The light bulbs in the chandelier were
turned off, but the area was well lit with sunlight that penetrated through the
large glass windows.

“No,
it’s a school holiday. Why don’t we go outside? It’s a beautiful day. Dad asked
me to show you around, but you have been sleeping last two days.”

“No,”
he said as he turned and walked toward her. “I don’t want to go out. I’m not
feeling well.”

“Oh,
come on! You will be just sitting in the car,” Zarin said and paused and then
asked awkwardly, “Do you they have cars in Egypt?”

“Yes,
we do. In fact, we have the same exact cars as you do here. Toyota Camry,
Honda…I have a bad headache. Can you get me some medicine?” he lied, hoping
that would send her out of the house, giving him some privacy.

“Oh,
no problem,” she said and went upstairs and came back within a minute with some
pills in her hand. “Here, take these. It will help you.”

Faizan
took the two blue gel pills and said, “Thanks.” Then he headed back to his
room.

Once
in his room, he locked the door, threw the pills outside through the window,
looked outside and prayed again.

After
he’d been done praying, he started packing his stuff. First he took the AK-74
rifle parts from the duffel bag, and one by one, he put them together and
finally clamped the barrel on. He had done it many times during his training.
He aimed the rifle through the window, gave it a shake and felt it was
assembled correctly. He laid it to rest on the floor by the wall and then
proceeded with the second rifle.

Next,
he took the two handguns out of the briefcase and loaded them. He checked the
cash again and was about to put on clothes when he heard a knock on the door.

It
was Zarin. Faizan hurried to the door.

“I
came back to check.” She peeped through the door which was only slightly opened
by Faizan. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,
yes,” he said and paused, still holding the door almost shut, thinking hard of
a better idea to get rid of her. “Actually, you know, I’m having a loose bowel
problem. I’m not used to this American food. Do you have any medicine for
that?”

Zarin
smiled and lowered her head. “I think we do. Let me check.” She left.

Faizan
closed the door, and his vision fell on the two rifles lying near the wall. He
quickly shoved them in the duffel bag; only the tips of the rifles’ barrels
could be seen from outside. Within a minute, Zarin was back again, and Faizan
opened the door slightly.

“I
think we don’t have any Imodium. Mom might keep it somewhere else. I don’t
know,” she smilingly said. “But don’t worry, I will go and get some for you.
Okay?”

“Okay.”
He shut the door again and, a minute later, watched Zarin leave in her red Ford
car. He was relieved. She was finally gone. He undressed and stuffed the
clothes inside the duffel bag and put on fresh ones. He tried to push the tips
of the AK-74s inside the bag, but a few inches of the barrel still hung
outside. 

He
knew he did not have much time. Zarin could be back any minute. He picked up
the duffel bag with his right hand and the black briefcase with the left. He
knew where the key to the professor’s Dodge Caravan was – hanging from a hook
on the hallway. After picking up the key, he laid the little note on the
kitchen counter –
Dear Mr. Hassan, a friend just called me. He wanted to
meet me in Atlanta. Don’t worry, and please don’t call the police. I will be
back tomorrow. Your car is safe with me.

None
of that was true. But he was happy that the girl was gone and he didn’t need to
kill her. Halim’s instruction was clear – kill anyone who stood in the way. Be
it the girl, her father, or the entire family. “Of course that would start a
manhunt,” Halim had said. “But cops in America are overrated; they won’t be
able to get to you within twenty-four hours. I have chosen the Augusta location
for a reason. After you leave the professor’s house, you cross into a new state
within minutes. Cops in different states don’t talk to one another, let alone
cooperate to catch someone.”

Faizan
exited through the door. He had his duffel bag and the briefcase. He took two
steps and froze. Zarin’s compact car appeared in front of the driveway and took
a slow right turn into it.

CIA
DIRECTOR STONEWALL was running through all the meetings she was going to attend
that day; it was a long list. She took a sip from her large cup of coffee and
then placed it back on the table. She had been prepping for her meetings for an
hour already, and it was only eight thirty in the morning.

At
nine sharp, she started the staff meeting. Lazarus was there, and she
introduced three newly hired field officers – two men and one woman, all of
them in their mid-twenties. 

“Remember,”
she continued her speech, “our job is not just to do what your supervisor tells
you to do. We are responsible to the American people. Keeping our great country
safe is what we do. Our country depends on us. We take risks, and we put our
lives on the line. Harbor no regret that you cannot tell your friends about all
that you do. Have no sadness that you don’t appear in newspapers or on TV or
Internet sites. You are the true hero. I know that. And the president knows
that.”

All
two hundred people, who had gathered to listen to Stonewall, applauded.
Stonewall spoke for another thirty minutes. And then it was time for her next
meeting, which was with the French Intelligence. It was going to be a video
conference call, and Lazarus was going to be joining her.

Stonewall
walked down the hallway, heading for her office, Lazarus sauntering alongside
her.

“We
have some credible info that there is going to be an attack on a French
university,” Stonewall said without looking at Lazarus. “But we don’t know
where.”

“Do
we know who is going to do it?” Lazarus asked, clearing his throat.

“The
source said two Algerian men are already in France. But what we don’t know is
who sent them. Al-Qaeda and the Iranians are the prime suspects. But either way
we have to warn the French.”

“Why
don’t we ask them to do something for us before we tell them?” Lazarus said as
they both entered Stonewall’s office and sat down.

“I
think that’s a good idea,” Stonewall started entering the conference number
into the Cisco video phone, “but I don’t know what they can pass on to us that
is valuable.”

“I
think they can give us a tape of those conversations over land phones from
France to Pakistan, to Saudi Arabia, to Syria. And copies of those physical
mails sent to mullahs in Paris that the French intel regularly…”

Stonewall
shushed Lazarus. The meeting was on. Three decorated French generals and two
French plainclothes men appeared on the video display.

“
Bonjour
,”
one of the generals said.

“
Bonjour
,”
replied Stonewall. A few minutes passed in exchanging pleasantries before
Stonewall broached the real topic at hand. “We have some info about an attack
in your country.”

“Let’s
hear it,” the second French general said.

“Not
so fast,” said Lazarus.

Stonewall
said to Lazarus in a hushed voice, “Let me handle it. You just listen in.”

“We
think we should receive something in return from you,” Stonewall said loudly
into the phone, “after we give you the information.”

“What
do you mean?” the second general said. “You tell us what you know, and we tell
you what we know. I thought that’s the deal we have.”

“Frankly
speaking,” Stonewall said, grinning. “Lately we have been giving a lot of data,
and in return, we don’t receive much.”