The Scientist (Max Doerr Book 2) Read online

  THE SCIENTIST (Max Doerr Book 2)

  A Novel By

  Jay Deb

  https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJayDeb

  Other books by the author: THE ASSASSIN (Max Doerr Book 1)

  CONTRIVED

  This book is a work of fiction. All events described in this book are fictional and imagined by the author. All characters are fictional and are born out of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is merely a coincidence.

  Copyright 2015 by Jayanta Deb

  All rights reserved. Neither this book nor any of its parts can be reproduced without written consent from the author. Any use whatsoever without permission is against the law and punishable.

  Reading level: 18 and above.

  Contents

  Prologue

  BOOK 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  EPILOGUE

  About the author

  EXCERPT – THE ASSASSIN

  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 confirmat
ion 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.

  Doerr took his smartphone out, expecting a text – nothing.

  So he sent a text to his handler: “Has the bird left town?”

  Within minutes, he received a text back: “No report of leaving.”

  Doerr texted: “Is the bird spotted in the city at all?”

  A reply text came back: “We have been bird-watching. But not spotted in the city yet.”

  Doerr: “Then how do you know the bird even reached Amsterdam?”

  Reply: “We don’t. Per the source, bird came to town yesterday.”

  Doerr: “Who is the source?”

  After a delay of two minutes, the reply came back: “The source’s reliability is as high as the fee we paid to secure the info. Hang on. You’ll see the bird soon.”

  Doerr didn’t send any more texts; he knew it was best to leave them alone and let them do their work while he waited for his moment. Doerr put his smartphone back into his pocket and proceeded to the third floor of the museum. He enjoyed art for an hour and then headed for the cafeteria and ordered a cheeseburger.

  He stood in the pickup line, waiting for his food to arrive, three other customers ahead of him. He watched the first customer take a t
ray full of burgers and fries. And that was when he felt a vibration in his pocket. He pulled out his smartphone.

  A text message was waiting: “Bird sighted in flower shop in Westerpark.”

  Doerr’s body went into alert mode immediately. Another text came with the address of the flower shop. Luckily the place wasn’t too far, ten minutes’ cab ride. Doerr left the cafeteria without waiting for his burger. As he ran down the stairs, his phone buzzed again. This time, it was a phone call from the handler.

  “Yes,” said Doerr into his phone.

  “A cab will be waiting at the museum. Its plate number ends in 124. Get inside the cab.”

  “I need to hire a cab myself.” Doerr had faced this situation before. The agency always wanted to use its own vehicle, more transparency, and better control. But Doerr wanted to hire his own ride, giving him the control.

  “Why?” the handler barked. “Our cab is fitted with a radio and multiple monitors. You know it’s better. Don’t argue with me.”

  “I don’t need a radio or monitor as long as you or somebody is online, answering my questions. Sometimes your vehicles are bugged, or the instruments hacked into.”

  Doerr picked up the pouch with his gun from the locker and was approaching the museum’s main door. “Besides, I won’t have time to stare at some fancy monitor.”

  “It’s a protocol defined by the top bosses, Doerr. We don’t want you to shoot from a cab and see the cabbie giving an interview on a TV channel an hour later. See my point now?”

  “I won’t be doing anything like that from inside a taxi,” Doerr whispered as he walked out of the museum. He could see a cab approaching; its plate number was SJT-124. From outside it appeared like an ordinary cab.

  Doerr detested the CIA when they tried to control the whole shebang. But he recognized it was pointless to argue with the handler. The time lost might prove crucial later. The cab stopped where Doerr was standing, and Doerr hung up the phone, entered the cab, and sat on the passenger seat. As the vehicle moved slowly away from the museum, the cabbie pressed a button on the dashboard. All the meter displays went dark, and the dashboard turned into a monitor displaying a video feed showing the front of a flower shop.

  “That’s the shop where Rafan is right now.” The handler’s voice came up on the radio.