The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) (23 page)

Faizan
sighed, not due to the sadness of killing but from exhaustion. He wiped the
sweat droplets from his forehead. He took one last look at the dead girl’s
crumpled body in the suitcase before closing the lid.

He
tried to lift the suitcase, but it was too heavy, so he pulled it down the
stairs. He opened the door and looked outside to make sure no one was around,
and there was nobody. He dragged the suitcase and put it inside the professor’s
van as quickly as he could. He chose the van over Zarin’s car because he knew
he would be loading bomb-making items soon.

He
went back inside the house and then straight to the kitchen, collecting things
to clean the traces of blood from Zarin’s room. He took his things downstairs and
wrote a new note, all in capital letters – MOM, DAD, I AM GOING AWAY WITH
FAIZAN FOR TWO DAYS, TO SHOW HIM AROUND. DON’T WORRY. I WILL BE BACK. LOVE,
ZARIN.

Faizan
put his bag and briefcase inside the van and climbed into the vehicle. He
cranked on the ignition and backed out of the driveway. As he switched the
transmission from reverse to D, he saw two birds fly by the windshield.

“Action
begins now,” he muttered. He pushed on the gas pedal, and within ten minutes,
he was driving on Interstate 20 East. He drove the first ten miles slowly and
carefully, holding the steering wheel with both hands, his eyes fixed on the
road in front.

But
as he drove, he relaxed and pressed the gas pedal further down; he loved the speed.
The highway was lined on both sides by the oak and maple trees that had shed
their leaves due to winter temperatures. A black pickup suddenly pulled in
front of him, forcing him to slow down, and he cursed at the driver. He saw the
blue board that said ‘Welcome to South Carolina.’

Shifting
lanes, he pushed the gas pedal again; the speedometer touched seventy-five. He
mentally calculated that he was driving at one hundred and twenty kilometers an
hour. It was way faster than the hundred kilometers speed limit on the Desert
Highway in Egypt. He got a thrill knowing that he had never moved so fast in
his life, if he didn’t count flying.

He
crossed a speed sign and slowed to a steady sixty. He looked at the fuel gauge;
it held at slightly below the halfway mark.

An
hour later, after passing Columbia, when the traffic thinned out, he took an
exit. He saw three people walking into the McDonald’s restaurant across the
street. For the first time, he felt lonely. In Mexico, he had been accompanied
by those odd-looking guys, and at the professor’s house he had never been
alone, and now he was accompanied by a dead body in the suitcase that lay in
the back of the van. He looked behind, just to make sure blood was not seeping
out of the suitcase. It was not. He let out a sigh of relief; he knew he had to
get rid of that body soon.

Passing
the McDonald’s, he could see the sign for a Shell gas station. Soon, he entered
the gas station and saw a guy in khaki shorts pumping gas.

Is
he a lunatic?
Faizan thought.
It must be below ten degrees
Celsius
. 

As
Faizan pulled up right behind the man’s car, the man gave him a curt look.
Faizan reached into his briefcase on the passenger seat and discreetly pulled
out the loaded 9mm. He opened the door and carefully put the gun in his right
pocket and pulled his shirt down to cover the bulge. He walked to his vehicle’s
fuel cap, his eyes fixed on the ground to avoid the man’s gaze. He inserted the
gas hose into the tank and pulled the lever. He listened to the bubbling noise
of gasoline running through the pipe. He wondered if the professor or his wife
were back at the house and, if so, whether they would call the police right
away. Faizan knew that even if they called the cops, the cops would do nothing
for the next twenty-four hours. By then his job would be complete, and he would
be dead and spending time with the virgins in heaven. 

The
gasoline continued to flow with a hissing noise. He could tell that the tank
was nearly full. Faizan chuckled with satisfaction. Just then, he saw a white
police car pull into the gas station. A feeling of panic spread through his
body, but then he calmed down. Faizan knew that the cops in South Carolina had
no reason to come after him. He took a deep breath and tried to look normal.

“The
cops in most of rural America are stupid,” Halim had said. “And their stupidity
is only exceeded by their arrogance. They know nothing about crime and simply
sip their coffee in the morning, roam around harassing people or simply sit on
their fat asses, hanging up their uniforms and holsters in the evening and
collecting their overpaid salaries every two weeks. You know many American
citizens there are in favor of eliminating the police force altogether.”

Halim,
the wise man, had seemed to know a lot about America, though he had never set
foot in the country, despite having a valid American visa on his passport.

Faizan
heard a click, and the bubbling noise of flowing gas stopped. He knew his tank
was full.

What
if I just drive away without paying?

But
then he decided against it.

He
walked inside the shop, picked up two Snickers bars and a bottle of Coke, and
then paid with cash. He returned to his vehicle, and within minutes, he was
driving on the highway, again at sixty miles an hour.

Tomorrow
would be the last day of his life. He was not scared. He could visualize an
erect stone somewhere. Faizan Al-Sourie. June 13, 1989 to February 22, 2012,
written on it. The question in his mind was how many of those stones would be
erected throughout Muslim land? One? A few? A few hundred or thousands? There
was no way for him to know.

Professor
Hassan was taking his last paleontology class of the day. 

“Look
at the picture of Sinosauropteryx, also known as Dino-bird,” the professor said
as he pointed his laser pen at the image on the whiteboard. “Its fossil was
discovered in China’s Liaoning quarry.”

The
professor turned his head to face the students to make sure everyone was
listening to him. “Who can tell me in which year the fossil was discovered?”

Five
or six hands went up.

“John,”
the professor said.

“1975.”

“Incorrect.”
The professor felt a vibration in the chest pocket of his white shirt. He took
the cell phone out. Seeing that it was his wife, he hit a button to send the
call to voicemail. “Okay, Cindy, go.”

“1997.”

“Correct.
Let’s take a break for five minutes.”

The
professor walked out of the classroom and held the phone to his ear for the
voice message. His face became clouded as the message played, and he
immediately hit the callback button.

“Hello,”
his wife said. “Something terrible has happened. Zarin is gone, and there is
this note from her that says she is going away with Faizan!”

“What?
What does the note say exactly?”

“Hold
on.” There was a pause on the line. “It says ‘Mom, Dad, I am going away with
Faizan for two days, to show him around. Don’t worry. I will be back. Love,
Zarin.”

“Is
it her handwriting?” the professor asked.

“It’s
hard to say. It’s written all in caps. I’m so scared right now. It is so unlike
her. I called her number, but her cell phone is in her room. Why did you tell
her to show Faizan around? Please, come home right now. I’m so scared.”

“Okay,
I’m coming.” A shiver ran down the professor’s legs. He knew Zarin never left
home without her phone.

After
telling the students that the class was over early, he rushed to the parking
lot and drove his Honda Accord home like a robot. A few weeks back he had
received a speeding ticket, which he thought had been more because of his race
and the color of his skin than the velocity of his vehicle. Since then he had
been driving at fifty-eight miles an hour only, but now he didn’t care; he
floored the gas pedal.

AFTER
A LITTLE debate, the professor and his wife went to the local police station
and reported their daughter’s disappearance. The middle-aged officer took the
details, then bluntly said, “We have to wait at least twenty-four hours before
any search can begin. How old did you say your daughter is?”

“Seventeen,”
the professor answered.

“Okay.
After twenty-four hours, when we find the man, we can charge him with
kidnapping a minor. But right now, I can’t do much.”

“Can’t
you search for them anyway?” the professor’s wife said, crying.

“We
will do everything we can,” the officer assured her, “
after
twenty-four
hours. There really isn’t anything we can do right now. Just wait.”

Dejected,
the professor and his wife left the police station and returned home to wait.

IN
HIS REARVIEW mirror, Faizan could see the sun drowning in an orange horizon. He
had been driving for hours since fueling. He needed gas again, needed to
stretch his legs, needed to find a cell phone that he could dial an
international number with. He needed a lot of things.

He
pushed the gas pedal, passed a slower sedan, and switched from the left lane to
the second, and watched the long silhouette of his vehicle. He passed a few
more exits and then got off the highway and drove to a gas station. It was
almost dark, and the light at the Exxon gas station barely lit the area.

Just
like the last time, he proceeded to fill his tank, but as he pushed the lever
of the gas hose, fuel didn’t flow. Then he saw notice on top of the price – if
paying cash, pay first. He put the tube back and entered the shop to pay.

“I
need gas,” Faizan said as he put his hand inside his pocket to pull out the dollar
bills.

“What’s
the number?” the short woman at the register asked.

Faizan
frowned, not knowing what she was asking for. The woman peeked outside and
pressed a button, and then said, “Okay, go ahead. Come back here to pay.”

Faizan
walked back to his vehicle and started fueling. He saw the number three written
in black and white at the pump. He understood what number the woman had been asking
for. After the fueling was complete, he again had an urge to drive away without
paying, and again he decided against it. He went back to pay.

“Where
can I find a RadioShack store?” Faizan asked the woman while handing over a
hundred-dollar bill.

“RadioShack…hmm,
let’s see.” The woman looked up at the ceiling as if the directions were
written there.

“You
take a left outta here,” the woman said as she returned his change. “Then go
about five miles, take a right on 560. Two miles down you’ll see a sign for
Neumann Mall. Then follow the signs. What are you looking for?”

“I
am looking for,” he almost said cell phone but realized it was better to say
something else. “I am looking for a TV.”

“Oh,
then better go to BestBuy. It’s right outside the mall.”

“Okay,
thanks,” said Faizan and turned to the door.

“Good
night,” the woman said. “Remember, Neumann Mall.”

Faizan
walked out without saying anything. He was finding driving on American roads
and running through American shops to be so easy. His training in Somalia was
surely a factor, but Faizan thought the main reason for the ease was all those
hours he spent watching those DVDs and devouring those books and magazines
about American life after he had received the acceptance letters from the universities.
At that time, he was sure he was heading for America, at least for a few years,
if not more. But the day his visa was rejected by the Satan in the embassy, he
burned them all. Eight DVDs, nine books and fourteen magazines – half of them
were from the library, but he did not care. Everything had gone into the
flames. It was his way of protesting.

Faizan
drove out of the Exxon gas station and took a left. After around four and a
half miles, he saw the sign for Route 560. He took a right at the next junction
and saw a car sitting at the side of the road, with its lights flashing. It
reminded him that he was supposed to change the license plates, and he cursed
himself.

Once
the other car disappeared from the rearview mirror, he pulled over and reached
inside the briefcase and pulled out the license plate from one of its pockets.
On top of the plate, the word California was written in red, cursive letters.

Armed
with a torch and a screwdriver, he headed for the rear end of his van.

Halim
is one heck of a planner
, he thought.

He
started unscrewing, and the first and second screws came off quickly. But the
third one wouldn’t budge. He tried for five minutes; his hands became sweaty,
and his fingers ached. He gave up.
Darn!

He
decided to ask Halim if changing the plate was that important. He was going to
talk to him as soon as he could acquire a cell phone.

He
put the two screws on the license plate back and returned to the driver’s seat.
Ten minutes later, he located the mall and then the RadioShack.

Buying
the prepaid phone went smoothly. He insisted to the salesman that he must be
able to make an international call with that phone. Halim had told him that he
might be asked for ID at RadioShack.

“Should
that happen,” Halim had told him, “just pretend that you forgot your ID and
then look for a second store.”

But
that wasn’t even necessary as the selling clerk rang his purchase through
without further comment.

Next,
Faizan went to the mall food court and ate until he was full before heading back
out to the parking lot. While pulling back to the road, he saw a sign for Home
Depot. He tapped his knuckles on his forehead. He had almost forgotten –
the
propane tanks
. He needed eight of them to surround the bomb that he would
be making very soon. Faizan could almost visualize the bomb going off. And
eight propane tanks around it would magnify the mayhem. He could almost hear
babies crying, women screaming and see the people fleeing helter-skelter.

He
went inside the Home Depot store and picked up four propane tanks and a twenty-five
gallon orange plastic gas can and paid with cash. He decided to buy the rest of
the propane tanks the next day, sensibly splitting up the purchases to avoid
raising suspicion.

He
pulled out of the store and followed the same road, going back the way he had
come.

Faizan
saw the taillight of a car about two hundred feet away. For no apparent reason,
Faizan stepped on his brake, and the big suitcase, carrying Zarin’s body,
rattled. That reminded Faizan that he needed to get rid of the girl’s body.

He
pushed the gas pedal and picked up speed, peering outside for a suitable place
to dump the body. He could only see the trees that lined the road. The car
ahead of him disappeared out of view. And Faizan stopped in front of a bush.

He
got out of the van and stood there, and he thought he saw something move in the
bush. Knowing this area could have bears, raccoons, snakes and other animals,
he returned to the vehicle, and then he realized that he would die in less than
twenty-four hours.
So why be afraid of anything?
He returned to the
front of the bush and decided it was not a good dumping site. He started
driving again. A few miles later, he saw a pond and stopped his van and turned
the headlights off. He dragged the suitcase to the edge of the pond and was
considering whether to open the suitcase. He knew if he dropped the body into
the water, it would sink – at least for now. But if he pushed the luggage into
the water, would it go under or would it float?

He
was not sure. He thought for a moment about what to do. In the end, he decided
to push the suitcase into the water. Taking the body out would take time, and
there was that chance that a car could pass by and see him in a precarious
situation.

With
his foot, he pushed the suitcase a few feet into the water. Its top was
sticking out above the water surface. Not because it was not heavy enough, but
because the water was not deep enough, Faizan realized. But he did not want to
get into the water and get his clothes wet. He looked around and found a sturdy
branch, which he used to push the suitcase deeper into the pond, and it
disappeared from view. Faizan smiled and returned to his vehicle.

He
took the recently bought cell phone out from his chest pocket. It displayed the
time – 7:18 p.m., and the four bars on top indicated it had a good signal.

He
pulled over and dialed Halim’s number, which he had memorized.

On
the second ring, Halim picked up. “Hello.” Halim’s tone told Faizan that he had
been waiting for this call.

“Faizan,”
Faizan said and paused. “I ate dinner, and now I am taking a walk.” That was
the code to say everything was going well, and he was on the way to Washington,
DC. If something went wrong, he was supposed to say he threw up, that the food
was bad.

“Good,
good,” Halim said. “You will go home and light the furnace?” That meant Faizan
would go to the house, pick up the explosives and start making the bomb.

“Yes,
yes.” Faizan thought of mentioning the issue with the license plate but decided
to say nothing about it. Cops would not be looking for him, and he would die in
less than twenty-four hours. Why should he bother? Also, how was Halim going to
help about the plate? If he explained the problem to Halim, it might blow the
cover on their coded conversation, and most importantly, the old plate didn’t
matter as the professor was unlikely to report the stolen car to the cops as he
would have a bigger problem to worry about – his missing daughter.

Cops
will not be looking for that plate
, Faizan thought.

“All
right,” Halim said, clearing his throat. “The man is waiting for you with the wood.”
That was again another code to say that the man was waiting in his house with a
heavy load of firecrackers, from which Faizan would extract the powder to make
the explosive.

“Okay,
I’m going to continue with my walk,” said Faizan and pressed the red button to
end the call before turning the phone off.

SAMUEL
HAD BEEN driving up and down the East Coast. Finding a large amount of
firecrackers at this time of the year was not easy, but he managed it. He
called a few friends and threatened some shop owners. He went from Richmond to
DC, from DC to Baltimore, from Baltimore back to Richmond.

He
accumulated fifty-six pounds of firecrackers, and then he headed down to the
house in Emporia, Virginia. 

As
soon as he reached the house, he booted up his laptop. Within a minute, he
logged on to his bank account and peered at the balance. As expected, the
balance amount had popped, and the difference was exactly what had been agreed
upon. Halim kept his word, and Samuel would deliver the goods to Halim’s man,
who would appear at his doorstep within hours.