The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) (26 page)

“What
is the matter?” Hassan asked, fear creeping into his voice.

“Do
you know someone named Faizan Al-Sourie?”

“Yes.
He stayed here for a few days. Have you found him? He has done something bad to
my daughter, my only child – she is missing.”

Once
again, the special agent ignored Hassan, and then he showed Hassan a picture
and asked, “Do you know this man?”

“Yes.
That’s Faizan.” The professor pointed his index finger at the picture. “The
bastard. Have you found her or not?”

“Did
you know the man before?”

“No.”

“Then
why did you let him stay here?” The special agent frowned and threw a cold look
at the professor.

“A
friend in Dubai sent him here. He is a student. He is going to study at
Georgetown University.”

“Sir,
please turn around,” the special agent said. “You are under arrest.”

“But
why?”

“Sir,
you have been warned. Now please turn around.”

Seeing
he had no other option, the professor turned, and then he saw his wife. She
must have been standing behind him for a while. Fear was visible on her face,
and tears streaked down her cheeks.

The
agent put the handcuffs on the professor’s wrists, and another agent started
reading the Miranda rights.

“What
have we done?” the wife said in a muted voice. “We have been living in this
country for twenty years. And my daughter is missing…” Her voice broke, and she
fainted and dropped to the ground.

DOERR
REACHED THE Metro Center Station and immediately spotted the van parked at the
curbside, and its plate number matched the one given by Louder. The last letter
on the plate was L; earlier, the FBI had been unable to determine the last
letter from the tape on the video surveillance at the Virginia house. He looked
at the van – there was no one inside.

It
was a cloudy day, the temperature hanging just above forty degrees. The place
was full of people; about two hundred fifty, he estimated. Folks were passing
by the van, and so did a handful of vehicles – one car honked for no apparent
reason.

Doerr
looked around, scanning for a young Egyptian man, who he knew to be about six
feet tall with a thick beard, which, Doerr knew, Faizan might have shaved off
already. Doerr could not locate the terrorist.

People
were walking, running, some away from the abandoned van and some passing it by.
He saw one man rushing away; his height and frame matched the description Doerr
had. Doerr saw the man close to the wall, and the man was putting his hand in his
jacket.  

Doerr
knew there was no time to lose. He took a calculated risk and screamed, “Down,
down, everybody. Get away from the van.”

Then
he screamed again.

People
scurried away, pushing and shoving each other. Some fell to the ground; some
lay down on the concrete. Doerr saw a toddler stumble, and a baby was thrown from
its stroller.

Doerr
turned and ran to the baby. As he reached the infant, the van exploded; the
ground shook, and metal pieces exploded outward in the immediate vicinity.
Tires screeched as cars slammed on their brakes, and people screamed and ran,
ducking for cover.

Doerr
picked up the baby, who was startled but unharmed. He handed the wailing child
to its shell-shocked mother.

He
turned to the van; the smoldering skeleton of the vehicle stood there as a
witness to the horrific incident that was taking place. Ten or eleven people
could be seen standing with bloody hands. Ten more were on the ground, not
moving at all.

Doerr
knew that the man who he had seen standing against the wall minutes before was
none other than Faizan, the Egyptian man sent by Halim to kill Americans.

Doerr
looked at the wall where he had spotted Faizan only moments before. Doerr
looked to the right and then to the left – no Faizan. The man was gone, no
trace left.

Out
of desperation, Doerr ran in the direction Faizan had been facing. He ran ten
blocks. Doerr was panting and breathing like a chimney. He couldn’t see Faizan.
Doerr kept running.

Onlookers
stared at Doerr. But he didn’t care; he ran another ten blocks and felt a sharp
pain in his leg, reminding him of the hip injury he had. He ignored the pain
and kept running, drawing his gun in case he needed it.

Doerr
darted forward, and now he could see Faizan rushing away at a distance,
carrying a black briefcase. Doerr pushed harder; the sharp pain from his hip
sprang up into his upper body.

Faizan
was pretty far ahead, and then he took a turn. Doerr ran faster, and when he
reached the turn, Faizan was more than two hundred feet away, and there were
other people around him.

Doerr
aimed his Glock at Faizan’s right leg. It was a long shot.

Doerr
would have preferred a rifle, an M4 or higher. But the Glock was the only
firearm he had. He leveled the barrel at Faizan’s knee. Doerr knew a Glock was
not the best choice of weapon under the circumstances. There was a high risk he
would miss and could hit a member of the public. But Doerr knew he had to take
that chance. If Faizan ran away, they might never be able to catch him.

Doerr
aimed the gun and pulled the trigger. A bird, startled by the crack of the firearm,
flew from one window to another, and Doerr saw Faizan stumble to the ground.
Two passersby stopped walking and looked at Faizan curiously while four others
rushed away.

Doerr
ran toward Faizan, the Glock in his hand. When he drew near, Doerr slowed and
pointed the gun at Faizan, who was lying on the ground. Doerr took slow steps
and tried to see if Faizan was holding a firearm, but it appeared he was not.
Faizan was teetering in pain, left hand holding his knee. There was an open
briefcase lying about five feet away from the Egyptian man. Dollar bills were
strewn on the cobblestoned walkway, and some bills fluttered in the air.

As
Doerr closed in, Faizan tried to crawl away, and he looked pathetic. Faizan’s
jacket was dirty, his hair unkempt, and lips bloody. Doerr came closer, and
Faizan conjured a gun, seemingly out of nowhere, and pointed the gun at Doerr
and fired. The bullet hit Doerr’s left shoulder, and he felt his collarbone
shatter into pieces. Doerr’s gun fell to the ground. His knees hit the cobbles
immediately, and he extended his hands and touched the ground, hoping to soften
the fall. But as soon as his hand touched the ground, he felt the sharp pain in
his shoulder. So he grabbed his shoulder with one hand and saw Faizan
staggering to his feet and away.

Doerr
mustered just enough energy to pick up his Glock, and shot Faizan in the back.
From the way Faizan fell to the ground this time, Doerr could tell Faizan would
not be going anywhere, anytime soon. Knowing Faizan could not shoot him from
that far away, Doerr rested his head on the ground and heard the growing wail
of the approaching police cars.

HALIM
SAT IN front of a large-screen TV in a plush hotel room, somewhere in the Middle
East. Two other men were sitting next to him. Halim frowned as the al-Jazeera
news anchor appeared on TV. “There was an attack at the Metro Center train
station in Washington, DC, today. A van with a crude bomb inside exploded. It
could be heard from miles away. Due to a man who warned the public in the nick
of time, only two people died. More than twenty are injured, five of them
seriously. The FBI is investigating, and a press conference is due to take
place in an hour.”

Halim
looked at the other two men with disdain. One of them was Raafiq, Halim’s
brother, who had been hiding from public view after escaping from France.

“Just
two people dead?” Halim roared.

Raafiq
and the third man shook their heads.

“Maybe
some of the injured ones will die soon,” the third man said sheepishly.  

Ignoring
the third man, Halim groaned. “Just two dead? Traitor. That Faizan is a big
traitor. He detonated the bomb and ran. He did not fire his rifle. He did not
lay down his life. All that training and effort went in vain.”

“We
can’t be sure of that, brother.” Raafiq tried to mollify Halim. “Maybe Faizan
did his job.”

“Then
why is that fucking al-Jazeera man not talking about it?” Halim turned his
stoic face toward Raafiq. “He should be talking about bullets coming out of
rifles, killing infidel after infidel!”

“Maybe
the Americans are afraid.” Raafiq pointed his hand toward the TV. “They don’t
want to tell their citizens how brave we are and how many more people have died
in Washington. Maybe…”

“No.”
Halim shook his head and raised his hand, stopping Raafiq from speaking
further. “Faizan betrayed us. Only hours before he told me everything was in
place for the attack. So he was lying. I should have known. He did not want to
die in the beginning. He is probably talking to the CIA right now, making a
deal. I did so much work and only two dead? Do you think that is justice?”

Raafiq
and the third man shook their heads. No.

No
one talked for a few seconds, and then Halim picked up the TV remote and pressed
the OFF button.

“Bring
me Faizan,” Halim commanded in a cold voice. “
Raafiq
, bring me a platter
with Faizan’s head on it.” 

Raafiq
stood up, made a fist and said, “I will kill Faizan and bring his head. I
promise you, brother.”

Doerr
woke up in a room well lit by fluorescent lights. The room was about ten by
eight feet, the marbled floor neatly cleaned and the door half closed. He was
lying on a bed, wrapped in a white blanket, which he removed and tried to peer
beyond the half-closed door, but he could see only a white wall. Determined to
find out more, he got off the bed, and then he saw the IV sack and a monitor on
a stand.

He
realized that he was in the hospital, and then he remembered being shot. A
picture of the man who had held the gun flashed in his mind – Faizan.

In
a reflex, he touched the shoulder that had been penetrated by a bullet; he was
not sure how long ago that had happened. His shoulder was tightly bound with a
white bandage. Though there was no pain, anxiety filled his mind suddenly.

He
poked his head out the door and asked, “Anyone here?”

No
one answered.

He
took off the IV needle from his wrist.

He
walked out of his room and saw an elderly woman lying on a bed in the next room
– another patient. Plastic pipe ran from her arm to the saline-filled IV bag.
Lines flickered across the monitor. The woman appeared to be asleep.

Two
nurses approached Doerr and ordered him to lie down on his bed.

“I
have to go,” Doerr pleaded. “You don’t know who I am. I have a very important
job to do.”

“Whatever
it is that you do,” the older, overweight nurse said, “it will have to wait.
You are not going anywhere in the next twenty-four hours. Do you understand?”

Doerr
angrily shook his head. “There are bigger things at stake right now. I have to…”

The
other nurse cut in. “Mr. Doerr, you were lucky the bullet didn’t totally break
your collarbone, but it is badly bruised. The surgeon took out the slug, but he
insisted you must be kept under observation for at least twenty-four hours.”

“I
see what you are saying.” Doerr calmed down and feigned agreement. He lay down
on the bed and said, “Okay. But I’m very hungry now. Can I get something to
eat?”

“Yes,
we will get you some soup.” The older nurse smiled at last. “And you don’t get
off that bed. Understand, big boy?”

Doerr
nodded. As the two nurses walked away, Doerr stood up. He was not going to
waste his time in a hospital bed. He knew he had to escape the hospital. But
there was a problem. He was wearing a hospital gown, and his wallet was gone.

IT
TOOK SOME deft talking, some lying but mostly bribing, for Doerr to get his
stuff back.

After
getting out of the hospital, Doerr made a few calls, and then he took a cab to
where Faizan was being questioned.

Doerr
entered the interrogation room; it was dark, except for around the chair where
Faizan sat, shackled. An overhead bulb hung from the ceiling right above the
chair. His sweaty face looked exhausted but defiant.

Doerr
stood in front of Faizan. Two other men flanked him, one of whom said, “We have
been talking to Faizan for a while. But the bastard has been bullshitting us
for hours. See if you can do something.”

Doerr
stood in front of Faizan and looked into his eyes.

“Who
sent you here?” the thirty-something muscleman, standing to Doerr’s right,
thundered at Faizan.

“Allah,”
Faizan said and pointed his eyes up.

“I
will send you to hell,” the man on Doerr’s right said and kicked Faizan’s bare
foot, “if you don’t tell us your boss’s name.”

Faizan
shook his head. The pain in Doerr’s shoulder was making a comeback, the
anesthetic wearing off.

The
muscled man on Doerr’s right took his gun out and pressed it against Faizan’s
forehead. “Tell us what you guys were planning? When exactly did you get in the
country?”

“I
was sent here by the Almighty to teach you infidels a lesson, and I was
supposed to die.” Faizan spat on the floor. “And now the Almighty is punishing
me for not carrying out his orders.”

The
man on Doerr’s right looked dejected. “It has been such a long night.” He
looked at Doerr, pointed his hand to Faizan and said, “We have been
interrogating this guy for three hours. But the bastard hasn’t budged. Maybe
only you can extract something from him.”

Doerr
thought for a few seconds. “You can still live.” Doerr put his hand on Faizan’s
chair and bent down. Doerr’s nose was within inches of Faizan’s. “Tell us the
truth. You can start with what you did to the professor’s daughter.”

Faizan’s
eyes flickered. He swallowed and licked his lower lip.

“Tell
us, you son-of-a-bitch.” The interrogator on Doerr’s left, who had not said
anything in the last minute, kicked the ground. “You killed the girl. Didn’t
you? What else did you do to her?”

“She
is in hell now,” Faizan said defiantly.

Doerr
looked into Faizan’s eyes. “Where is her body?”

“I
don’t remember, somewhere in Virginia.”

“Where
in Virginia?”

“I
don’t know. I dumped her body in a lake near a road.”

“Where
is Halim?” Doerr grabbed a handful of Faizan’s hair. “What is his number?”
Doerr knew Faizan had been calling Halim, but he may not know where Halim was.
If the CIA could get hold of the number, there was a good chance that they
could locate Halim.

Faizan
sat silently, and then suddenly he threw kicks in the air. “I want to die.
Somebody kill me. Allah, forgive me.” He pushed his feet on the ground, and the
chair toppled backward, and his head hit the ground with a thud.

Doerr
saw a gash in the back of Faizan’s head, and blood began to ooze out. Doerr
knew what Faizan was trying to do, injure himself and gain sympathy. It was an
old trick employed by many criminals. Doerr remained calm and shouted for a
doctor.

A
young paramedic, carrying a box, came in. He looked at Faizan’s wound and shook
his head. “We have to take him to the hospital.”

Ten
or fifteen minutes later, an ambulance with armed security guards came and took
Faizan away.

Doerr
thought of going back to the hospital where he had been just hours before. He
touched his wounded shoulder, and it felt okay to him. The pain had lessened
some. He felt a trip to the hospital was unnecessary, and if he went, getting
out again may not be easy.

He
called a cab and booked a room at a nearby hotel.

It
was three a.m. when the cab picked Doerr up. The roads were deserted, walkways
empty, no honking cars, no one talking on cell phones and crossing the road at
the same time, and even the cabbie was silent.

Doerr
reached the hotel room in less than twenty minutes. He grabbed a frozen turkey
sandwich from the mini fridge, microwaved it, took a bite, and then slumped on
the bed. But he could not sleep. Faizan’s face was lingering in his head.

To
forget Faizan, Doerr turned on the TV.

A
newsman was reporting the mayhem that had taken place earlier in the day. “The
attack was seemingly conducted single-handedly by a young man from Egypt, who arrived
in the country illegally. How and where the man entered America isn’t clear.
Only two people were killed in the attack, as most of the public turned away
from the exploding vehicle, thanks to the warning of a law enforcement officer
from either the local police or the FBI. The FBI is investigating how the
Egyptian man got a vehicle, the explosives and was able to travel all the way
to Washington, DC. They are saying that they have more questions than answers
right now. We just have to be patient.”

Doerr
changed the channel. He knew that CIA agents’ names were never expressly
mentioned in news reports. Credit always went to the other authorities. But one
thing he was sure about – Faizan could not have done everything on his own. He
must have had help, and it had not come from that Augusta professor; it had to
be from someone else.

DOERR
WOKE UP at eight thirty the next morning. He tried to get up and felt the pain
in his shoulder; he had almost forgotten about his wound. He ordered a huge
breakfast to gather enough energy for the day ahead. He went to the downstairs
shop and purchased a bottle of maximum strength Tylenol to take care of his
pain.

He
came back to his room and looked outside through the window. The city had
returned to its hectic activities. Students were headed for their classes,
wearing sports jackets. Lawyers walked by, in their spotless suits, and drivers
honked constantly. From his window, he watched countless cabs dropping
customers at the hotel.

Doerr
turned away from the window, picked up his cell phone and dialed Gayle’s
number.

“When
are you coming back?” she asked.

“I’m
not sure. We apprehended the guy who exploded the bomb. Now some questioning is
going on. We still don’t know where the mastermind is.”

“The
CIA arrested the man?” Gayle sounded surprised. “On the TV they are saying the
FBI did all the work.”

“No,
we did. Our name never goes on the TV. Think of it as a classified detail.”

“What
are you going to work on today?”

“The
guy tried to kill himself yesterday, so he was taken to the hospital. Today he
should be back. We are going to get the information out of him one way or
another. Hopefully he will sing soon, and then I can move on to finding
Samuel.”

“When
are you coming home, Max?”

“Soon,
baby. Soon. Samuel is still sitting on my chest, choking me. If they don’t let
me go after him, then I’m going to quit and hunt for him all by myself.”

“But
what do you think will be the chance of success if you go it alone?”

“That’s
the thing.” Doerr heard a knock on the door. “I will call you tonight, okay?”
Doerr said and hung up and opened the door.

It
was the concierge. He came in with a double omelet with bacon, a large
Croissan’wich with ham and cheese, a large portion of hash browns and black
coffee: a traditional, fat-loaded, American breakfast. He finished every morsel
of the food and sipped his coffee.

He
received a text message from the agency. ‘Bird is back in a new nest and car on
the way.’ Faizan was back from the hospital.

Doerr
rushed his coffee and put on black slacks and a white shirt. He put the tie in
his pocket, to be knotted in the car, and headed for the lobby. He picked up
another cup of coffee at the hotel lobby and waited outside.

A
white sedan stopped next to the curb, and Doerr instantly knew that it was his
ride by looking at the driver, who was a thirty-something man in a suit,
obviously not a driver by profession. Doerr got in and sat on the passenger
seat. The vehicle started moving, slowly at first and then it picked up speed.
Its dashboard was extra large with a large monitor.

The
car took Interstate 66, heading west, before taking an exit that led to an
increasingly rural area.

Doerr
looked around, and he could see only trees and glimpses of a few far-between
houses. The road was dotted with potholes, perhaps on purpose – to keep the
agency interrogation house as far away from the public’s eyes as possible.

The
driver asked, “First time here?”

“Yes.”

“Did
you join the agency recently?”

“Not
really,” Doerr said and then changed the topic. “These houses look privately
owned.”

“They
are. Our agency bosses decided we needed a jail-cum-interrogation facility in
an area that looked like a residential place. A place where journalists or the
civil rights groups won’t be poking their heads.”

“How
long have you been working at this jail-cum-interrogation facility?” Doerr
asked.

“A
month. But I like the place already. You see, this place is just fifteen miles
away from the center of DC, very convenient for everyone. It was constructed
just five years back, when George Bush was president.”

“I
see.”

“He
was a good president, by the way,” the driver said. “I know the whole country
hates him, but I think he was a courageous man.”

Doerr
was irritated to see where the conversation was going. “I also admire George
Bush. I like all the presidents. People think being the president is easy. It’s
not. But I will tell you one thing.” Doerr turned to the driver. “At work we
should never express political views. We do our job and leave the opinions for
the gutters of newspaper op-eds and blogs.”

The
young driver did not reply. Perhaps he realized that Doerr was correct.

The
car turned into a driveway, and the ride became smooth again. The driveway was
winding, definitely on purpose so people could not see much from outside, and
lined with tall trees. A hundred feet into the driveway and nothing was visible
– no road, no neighbor’s house. The car approached a large gate made of iron
bars, and it opened without making a noise. The car drove through slowly and
came to a stop.