The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) (30 page)

“Really?
I didn’t know that.”

“In
fact the fourteenth sura of the Koran says.”

“Okay
Max,” Gayle interrupted. “I get it. The Koran never taught anyone to hate the
Christians or anybody else. Now tell me about Regina? Have you talked to her
since you left her in Dubai?”

“Yes,
I have talked to her a few times. She’s fine. She’s taking some time off, just
like me.”

“So
you talked to her a
few times
?” She wore a smirk on her face.

Doerr
pressed the beer bottle to his lips and nodded.

“Is
she beautiful?” she asked.

“She
is good-looking. I won’t say beautiful. You
are
beautiful.”

Gayle
was about to say something, but the server came back with their food and
started laying the plates on the table.

SENATOR
BRUSHBACK AND Ross Calpone met at East Potomac Park, under the same oak tree
where the senator had met Lazarus not too long ago. Both men wore black
overcoats and large hats, though the temperature was in the mid-sixties. The
garments were probably worn as a disguise.

Both
men faced the water, and Ross Calpone spoke first. “So how do we take care of this?”

“There
is no we here,” Brushback said. “You are going to take care of Lazarus and
Samuel. We can’t have two loose cannons sitting in jail, ready to burst out
anytime and spill our secrets.”

“Did
you guys try convincing the president for a pardon?”

“We
tried. But this president is stubborn. He has already agreed to informally
recommend you for the deputy director post. We can’t pressure him for too many
things. And also, the future is more important than the past.
You
have
to take care of Lazarus and Samuel. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

Ross
Calpone nodded and appreciated what the senator had done for him. If Brushback
was not there for him, Ross would be working for the CIA with a meager salary
and occupying a tiny cubicle at Langley. “Should I hire a mafia hitman,” Ross
asked the senator. “Or send some of our agency soldiers for this job?”

“I
leave that up to you. Make your decision. After all, you will be making very
big choices very soon. But I will tell you one thing.” The senator paused.

“What
is that?”

“Make
it the same day.”

“Make
what on the same day?” Ross asked.

“In
our world we don’t spell out everything, Ross. We don’t say stuff that can get
us into trouble, even if there is no recorder turned on. So I say one more time
– make it the same day.” The senator turned and started walking away. “We talk
with wink and clink. Get used to it.”

Bemused,
Ross Calpone kept thinking what the senator meant. Within a minute, Ross
figured it out.

He
cursed himself. Why did he not understand it immediately after the senator had said
it? Ross was mad at himself. How could he be so stupid? Maybe his dad had been
right when he had called Ross ‘the dumb one’ repeatedly during his middle
school years.

Ross
wanted to apologize to the senator. But Brushback was gone. Ross ran to the
parking area.

Both
the senator and his black Lincoln sedan were gone.

Ross
started walking back to his car.  

Yes,
Lazarus and Samuel had to be taken out the same day. Ross knew if one was
killed before the other, the other might see what was coming and spill the
beans. That could not be allowed.

Taking
out both Lazarus and Samuel, who were in different jails, on the same day would
be a little hard to do. But Ross knew exactly how to do it.

Doerr
received an urgent message from Director Stonewall, asking him to come and see
her at Langley immediately. At first, he was unwilling. After Gayle encouraged
him to go, only then, he decided to head for Langley, grudgingly.

Stonewall
greeted Doerr in her office. She wore a black pants suit and looked cheerful.
Doerr knew that she was working twelve hours a day, six days a week, as she was
yet to appoint a new deputy director after Lazarus had been relieved of his
duties.

After
pleasantries, she asked, “How is your shoulder, Max? Is the pain still there?”

“Pain
is life,” Doerr said. “It is still there. But I’ve learned to live with it. My
therapist says it may take another six months for the pain to go away
completely. Doctor gave me pain meds. But most of the time I just ignore the
ache.” 

“Good.
And how is Gayle doing?” Stonewall asked.

“She’s
okay. She was rattled to see my injury at first. But she is okay now.”

“Excellent.
You know both Lazarus and Samuel died in jail, attacked by fellow inmates,”
Stonewall said. “It is sad, but maybe that’s what they deserved.”

“Yes.
I heard about it,” Doerr said. “It is a little bit odd that the two died the
same day and also at about the same time. Is the agency investigating the
murders?”

“No,
we are not. FBI is. We have better things to do, Max. Moreover, it is their
jurisdiction.”

“Something
tells me there is more to it.”

“Like
what?”

“Like
someone sitting behind, controlling things.”

“Do
you have a name?” Stonewall asked.

“I
just feel there is a controller out there, managing things. Lazarus mentioned
Senator Brushback’s name. He said some senators gave him the money and covered
for what he was doing.”

“Max,
that is not possible. Both Lazarus and Samuel said repeatedly during the
investigations that it was just the two of them who did all those bad things.
And no one else was involved,” Stonewall said smilingly. “I think you are
little bit paranoid. And I can’t blame you. Sometimes it happens when you go
through a great personal loss.”

Doerr
knew there was a force behind what Samuel and Lazarus did. But he could not
prove it. He didn’t have a lead. So he let it go.

“Have
you decided who our next deputy director of operations will be?” Doerr asked.

“Yes.
I am almost decided that Ross Calpone is going to be the next deputy.”

Doerr
was surprised. He had worked with Calpone some time back, and he did not like
Calpone one bit. Doerr felt Ross Calpone was inept and sometimes downright
lazy. “Do you think he is the right person to lead operations?”

“No,
I don’t. But more than half of the Senate Intelligence Committee members favor
him. And tens of congressmen from both parties have called me and urged me to
choose Ross Calpone for the post. And recently even the White House has
expressed their preference for him.”

“But
isn’t it completely your choice as to who the next deputy director will be?”

“Yes,
it is. But you know how it is in Washington. You can have a couple of foes, but
you don’t want half the town to be your enemy.”

“I
feel some of America’s worst enemies are living right here in Washington,” said
Doerr.

“You’re
probably right. But maybe there is something in Ross Calpone that I don’t
understand. I hope I will find out soon. Now let’s talk about some work, shall
we?”

Doerr
hated Washington politics. It was the reason why he had left the CIA years
back. He was willing to talk about work rather than the bickering among the
politicians.  

“Okay,”
he said.

“Good.”
Stonewall lifted a manila folder from the table and handed it to Doerr. “Read
this and then tell me if you want to take up this job.”

Doerr
took the file, looked at it and looked back at Stonewall’s expressionless face.

He
opened the file and started reading.

Thanks
to the secrets spilled by Faizan Al-Sourie and the good work of Max Doerr and
Regina Rosania, the CIA could observe Abu Halim’s actions up close. Abu Halim’s
hiring activity increased recently, and he was sending terrorist trainees in
droves to Somalia and Syria. The CIA had never actually been able to locate Abu
Halim in real time until about two weeks ago. The agency had a lucky break. Abu
Halim was located near Galcaio, in the Gudug region of Somalia. He was hunkered
down in a house with several associates. An hour and thirty-three minutes after
the sighting, a missile from a CIA drone was fired at the house, killing Abu
Halim instantly.

Latest
communications suggest that Abu Halim’s brother, Raafiq Halim, has taken over
Abu Halim’s organization, and he is trying to hire new trainees. The agency
leadership is very worried and would like to see Raafiq Halim assassinated quietly
as soon as possible before he becomes a problem like Abu Halim. They also think
that the only person, who could do this without creating a problem, is Max
Doerr, the assassin.

Doerr
raised his face. Stonewall was waiting for an answer.

“So
if I decide to work,” said Doerr, “I will have to report to Ross Calpone?”

“No.
You
will work directly for me.”

“I
will discuss it with my family and get back to you soon,” Doerr said and rose
to leave.

He
walked out of Stonewall’s office and sauntered through the hallway. He saw the
old office where Lazarus used to sit. The memories of the archaic operations
crowded his mind. He was livid that another inept person would be occupying
that office soon.

As
Doerr trudged out of the building and walked to the parking lot, he considered
the work Stonewall had offered. He was familiar with the revulsion of death,
but he knew some deaths, like Raafiq’s, were a necessity. As he opened the door
of his vehicle, he made the decision.

He
turned the ignition on, called Gayle from his cell phone and said, “I have to
leave for Dubai in a few days. I have a job to do that should take no more than
a week or two. And this time, please come with me.”

“I
would love to come with you,” Gayle said. “But I have to get some time off from
my work first.”

                                   
THE
END

Reading
and writing has always been his passion, though he is a software developer by
profession. He holds an undergraduate degree in Physics and a graduate degree
in Computer Science.

He
lives in New Jersey with his wife and son.

Connect
with the author at facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJayDeb

Other
books by the author:    
THE SCIENTIST
(Max Doerr Book 2) (US Link)
(UK Link)

                                               
CONTRIVED (US
Link)
(UK Link)

If
you liked this book, please leave a review comment at amazon.com
here
(US link)
or
here
(UK
link)
.

Acknowledgments:
I am grateful to my family for support in writing and all those hours they
leave me with my characters. I am thankful to those friends who gave me
encouragement to write, too many to mention here. I thank Pauline Nolet for
editing this book.

Prologue                                  Nevada,
USA

A
feeble metallic noise came from the iron bars of his prison cell, which sounded
more like a song to sixty-two-year-old Jon Janco, a former nuclear scientist
serving a thirty-year sentence for selling nuclear secrets to a foreign
government. Janco sat up on his bed and looked at the two masked men standing
right outside his cell just like they had promised.

Janco
thought the men were like two tires of a bicycle, representing hope, about to carry
him into freedom, far away from the jail life he’d been living for the last two
years and three months.

“Get
some good sleep before the big day,” the guys had told him last night, and Janco
had tried but to no avail. Was it the tension or was it the hope of breathing
fresh morning air after rotting in the slammer for so long?

He
could not tell, and it didn’t matter now.

Janco
saw the short man insert an iron wire into the lock. Holding his breath, Janco
watched, and a minute later, the lock clicked open.

It
is happening
. Janco felt exulted.

David
Taylor, the short guy, opened the door slowly, without making any noise, and Roger
Gibbs, the tall man, entered Janco’s cell and set his foot on the cold, cracked
concrete floor.

“You
ready?” Gibbs asked Janco.

Janco
nodded.

Taylor
handed Janco a black pantyhose. “Put this on and let’s move.”

Janco
put the pantyhose over his head like an obedient servant.

“Now
come,” Taylor said and stepped out of the cell.

Janco
and Gibbs followed Taylor. Janco turned his head to take one last peek at his
dilapidated cell, and then he started stepping into the hallway with the two
men, passing by the cells where inmates were sound asleep. Only a few
lightbulbs were turned on, throwing just enough light to see things, a perfect
condition for a jail escape.

Following
the two men, Janco took a right turn and froze; he could see a guard dozing on
a chair at the main gate. Gibbs and Taylor had told Janco last night, “No
security guy will be there, and the door will be unlocked.”

Instinctively,
all three men stepped to the side wall and pressed their backs against it; the
pillar in the front protected them from any look the guard might take.

“He
wasn’t supposed to be there,” Taylor, the short man, whispered.

“Not
sure what happened,” Gibbs said, shaking his head. “I was told all of them had
been paid off.”

Now
Janco regretted agreeing with these two men for an escape when they had
approached him a few weeks back. “We have been sent by Iran,” the tall man had
said.

Janco
had doubts. The two men appeared to be Caucasians, but then some Iranians did
look like Caucasians, and it had been a worthy shot to avoid twenty-eight more
years in the penitentiary.

Janco
knew he would certainly die in prison someday if he stayed.

Now,
with a hindrance right at the first step of the rendezvous, Janco was having
second thoughts.

“Should
I go back to my cell?” Janco asked Gibbs.

“Are
you crazy?” Gibbs said dismissively. “Too late for that.”

After
a few moments of silence, feeling frustrated, Janco said, “Maybe you didn’t pay
enough bribe.”

“Shut
up,” Gibbs said and turned to Taylor.

“There
is an alternate route, but” – Gibbs jerked his head toward Janco – “I don’t
think that ass can climb the fence.”

Trying
to glance at the guard, Taylor poked his head out and then said to Gibbs, “I
think he’s just sleeping. Maybe we can pass by.”

“You
think so?” Gibbs stuck his head out and tried to look at the guard. “You may be
right. It’s worth a shot. We have to make it today; otherwise all the planning
goes astray.”

“Right,”
said Taylor.

Gibbs
started rushing toward the main door of the jail and made a hand gesture for
Janco and Taylor to follow him. Three masked men marched toward the gate. As
they got closer, it was apparent that the guard was sleeping, his sleepy head
tilted to the right.

“He’s
snoring,” Taylor said, standing about ten feet from the guard.

“Let’s
go,” Gibbs said and walked up to the gate that was made of thick iron plates
and tried to open it. He shook his head; the gate was locked.

Janco
knew after crossing through this door they would have to trot across the yard
and face another gate, a taller and wider one. If they could get through that
one, only then could Janco breathe free air, a big
if
now. Janco
understood someone had paid off the jail officials to lock all the inmates
except the three, leave the two main doors open, and then depart.

But
apparently something had gone wrong.

Someone
didn’t do his job, or someone wasn’t paid enough.

“Now
what?” Taylor barked at Gibbs.

“Give
me those keys.” Gibbs pointed at the guard, a thirty-plus man with a large bald
head. A bunch of keys attached to a ring hung from the chair’s handle.

Taylor
approached the man, who was still snoring. Taylor picked up the keys and gently
threw them to Gibbs. Gibbs caught the bunch and inserted one key into the lock.
The door didn’t budge, so Gibbs tried a few more keys.

Suddenly
the man opened his eyes, stood up and screamed, “Stop.”

The
ongoing noise must have woken him up.

Janco
watched the guard unhook his holster, about to take out his gun. Taylor lunged
at the man, and the gun dropped to the floor. Taylor grabbed the guard’s neck
with his muscled hands and held him in a choke hold. The man tried to free
himself, but his efforts were proving futile. Taylor held his arms tighter and
looked at Gibbs for confirmation of something.

Gibbs
nodded.

Taylor
twisted the guard’s neck with great force, and soon the hapless man’s body
dropped to the floor, and it appeared the guard was dead.

Janco
had heard about many murders from other inmates. Some had given him graphic
details of how they had done it, to which Janco had listened with feigned
interest. But he had never thought he would watch a killing.

“C’mon.”
Gibbs tried a few more keys in the lock and wiggled them. Finally, one key
turned all the way.

Janco
could hear some inmates shouting, kicking on their cells’ doors, perhaps woken
by the cacophony of beating the guard.

“Let’s
go,” Taylor said and started moving. Janco followed.

Gibbs
shook his head and mumbled, “They made a screwed-up plan.”

Janco
wondered who exactly were
they
? But the thought vanished as the alarms
started blaring and the lights flashed everywhere around.

Gibbs
crossed the door and started running across the yard where Janco had played
basketball many times. Gibbs screamed, “Come on, Jon. We have less than five
minutes before they come grab us.”

As
Janco ran, he felt weakness in his legs. He was five feet eight inches tall and
weighed one hundred and forty-five pounds after losing twenty pounds in the
last three years.

Gibbs
stopped at the main gate, tried a few keys, and the door opened like a faithful
dog.

Janco
stepped out of the jail for the first time, and as he felt the air of freedom,
strength returned to his feet.

“Hurry,”
said Gibbs, and the three men started running along the slender road right
outside the jailhouse.

Soon,
they were on the main road, where a pearl green compact car was waiting. The
passenger-side door flung open, and Gibbs got inside. Janco and Taylor entered
the vehicle and sat in the rear seats.

A
woman was in the driver’s seat. Janco surmised her age was a tad above thirty.
She started the car’s ignition, and the vehicle started moving.

Taylor
leaned forward and asked Gibbs, “You think we should call them and let them
know the guard’s situation?”

“No,”
said Gibbs. “Not now.”

Janco
peered outside. The sun was yet to come up, but the view was soothing to his
eyes.

               
BOOK 1

Chapter 1
       
                                Amsterdam

Max
Doerr, the CIA assassin, was getting ready for work. It was a cloudy morning;
the little ducks were moving around quietly, and he saw some swans searching
for food. Doerr pulled the blinds on both the windows in his hotel room and put
on a pair of shorts and a white T-shirt to make him look like a typical
American tourist, but his purpose was to hunt down the man who had sucked all
the happiness from his life. At six feet four inches, two hundred twenty
pounds, not a shred of unnecessary fat in his body, he was physically strong
and mentally ready for the hunt.

In
the right pocket of his shorts, he tucked in a Glock 27, a preferable choice
when stealth was more important, with a short barrel and easy to conceal. In
Doerr’s parlance, he called it a tank. He could take any target down with it
from a reasonable distance. Many in his profession preferred a Glock 23, a gun
with more precision, a heavier caliber bullet and a longer barrel. But for
Doerr the precision was in his hands, brain, and the endless amount of time he
had spent with his firearms – not in the length of a barrel. He was one of the
best shooters the CIA ever produced.

In
the other pocket of his shorts, he placed a magazine with additional bullets, a
Swiss knife, and an encrypted smartphone. He put on a pair of white sneakers
and then waited for a text message from his handler. No text message came for
five minutes, which meant the agency folks didn’t have a visual of the target.
There had been reliable intel that Rafan, the target, was in Amsterdam to carry
out a transaction. So the CIA had spread the word around, extended its
tentacles to locate Rafan, and sent their best assassin – Max Doerr.

Unable
to just wait in his room, Doerr closed the door of his hotel room and proceeded
to the elevator. Once inside, he pressed the button marked G and tried to
create an image of Rafan’s body in his brain – five feet four inches tall,
almost a foot shorter than Doerr, broad shoulders and a medium belly. Last time
Rafan had been located, he wore a thin beard, which was probably gone by now or
maybe he’d put on a thick and long beard to make him look older, like a mullah.

Doerr
walked through the hotel lobby, visually scanned the area out of habit, pushed
the revolving main door of the hotel, and then stood at the curbside for a cab.
He took out his smartphone to check for the text message – nothing.

The
concierge came up. “Need taxi?”

Doerr
nodded as he put the phone back in his pocket. A silver-colored cab, TCA
written on its top, pulled up. The concierge opened the gate, and Doerr sat
down in the rear seat, and the cab started moving slowly.

“Van
Gogh Museum,” Doerr said, and the cabbie nodded.

“You
from America,” the cabbie asked as the vehicle picked up speed and overtook a
tiny white electric car.

“Yes,”
said Doerr and looked outside through the window glass.

“I
know people. As soon as I see someone, I know where they’re from.”

“I
see that,” Doerr said grudgingly.

“I’m
Thyagi. From Sri Lanka. I came here to study engineering.”

“Then
what happened?”

“Don’t
like engineer work, so I started driving. This way I see places.”

“Good
point.”

“What
do you do?” the cabbie asked, the most annoying question for Doerr.

It
was a question he’d been asked a million times, so he had an answer ready. “I
run a business.”

Most
people were happy with that reply but not this cabbie.

“What
kind of business?”

“I
buy and sell pianos.” This wasn’t too far from the truth. He had bought and
sold pianos many times though not for money. Playing piano was his hobby, and
he had upgraded his instrument many times, sometimes just because he was bored
with the older one.

“You
see, I used to play pianos,” the cabbie shouted, making sure Doerr heard every
word. “I played many types of pianos.”

Thirty
minutes later, Doerr entered the art museum that contained the best collection
of works by Van Gogh, the Dutch Post-Impressionist painter from the late
nineteenth century, Doerr’s favorite artist, who had died from a gunshot at the
age of only thirty-seven. Many believed the painter committed suicide, but
Doerr thought that wasn’t the case. Why would a man of immense creativity
destroy his own life?

“Do
you need a tour?” someone asked, breaking his train of thought.

Doerr
shook his head. He knew enough about Van Gogh, and this was the fourth time
Doerr had visited this museum. He put his pouch with the gun inside a locker in
the museum and then took the elevator to the top floor.