The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) Page 2

  “Hang on, Max. I know you’re going through a rough time. Why don’t you take some time off?” Carl paused. “Actually, I can’t afford to give you time off.” Doerr heard Carl sigh.

  “Why don’t we do this?” Carl said. But Doerr was in no mood to listen. He proceeded to his desk.

  DOERR GOT UP to the shrill noise of the alarm at seven a.m. He did not see the sunlight he expected. He wasn’t used to waking up so early. He adjusted his eyes and knew Gayle had already left for work a while ago. He sat up on his bed and could see the streetlights still glowing outside; the sun was yet to come out in full force. He got up, freshened and was ready to leave in about ten minutes.

  Doerr was headed for the assisted-living place in Queens, where his mother had been cared for over the last five years. He took a train on line seven and arrived just before nine. It was a cloudy, humid and grumpy morning. The streets were soaked and dirty from the rainy night before.

  He waited in the lobby of the assisted-living building for the clock to strike nine, the start of the visitation time. He could see three old women sitting at a table, two of them talking, the other looking into the vacant space.

  Doerr was soon in the room where his mother lay in a twin-size bed with a wooden head panel. A wheelchair sat right next to the bed. The room had one medium-sized window, and not enough sunlight was coming in. Doerr turned on the light and stood next to his sleeping mother.

  “Mom,” Doerr said softly and gave her wrist a gentle shake. “Mom.”

  She opened her eyes and appeared to recognize her son. Elated, she sat up and held her son’s hand. Doerr sat down next to her. “How are you?”

  The pleasantries continued for a few minutes, and then his mom said, “Max, you should find a good girl and get married soon.”

  Doerr sighed. “Mom, I’m married already.”

  She suffered from Alzheimer’s disease. Before moving to the elderly care home, his mother had lived with him in his apartment for a few years. But when her condition had worsened, the doctor had recommended assisted living, where she could be monitored and cared for twenty-four seven.

  Doerr took out his smartphone and showed her a picture of Gayle. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “Yes.” His mother’s face lit up. “What does she do? How did you meet her?”

  “She works with computers at a big bank.” Doerr started telling her about Gayle, which he had done many times, and he knew all too well that his mom would not remember anything he was saying. He also knew that he would repeat the same thing to her again, sooner or later. But he never felt tired. In fact, he felt joy telling her about Gayle’s qualities.

  Ten minutes later, his mom asked, “How is Billy? I haven’t seen the boy for a long time.”

  Doerr didn’t say anything. He could not. His chest felt heavy, and moisture started gathering at the corners of his eyes. He took a deep breath and, without a shred of emotion, said, “Billy is doing fine. Busy with his studies.”

  Even if he told her the truth, she would not remember. Billy would always be alive in her mind. For a fraction of a second, Doerr wished he had his mother’s affliction.

  DOERR TOOK A late subway train from his work. As the train moved forward through the tunnel, he felt as if his heart was collapsing and his brain crashing from the sadness of his son’s death.

  A few Tuesdays back, at around the same time, his son had been killed while he vacationed in Punta Cana. When he heard everything from the police officers, he felt like choking the killer with his own hands. If only he knew who that killer was. He had gone back to work after only one week’s break, just so he could get out of the apartment where Billy had been murdered so viciously. He was only nineteen and had twenty thousand ambitions. He’d had a bright future ahead of him, but it had ended before it had truly begun.

  Police had assured Doerr that the killer would be found soon. Another apartment dweller had seen a mysterious man leave the building at around the time Billy had been killed. He was a tall, large-framed man and wore a big cap. Doerr hoped the cops were right.

  If the cops did not find the killer within a month, he promised himself, he would take the matter into his own hands and find the culprit and kill him. Killing was nothing new to him. He remembered the first time he had killed a man.

  IT HAD HAPPENED fifteen years ago in a five-star hotel in downtown Chicago. Doerr was given the target’s picture and the time when the man would check in. He patiently waited in the lobby, pretending to read a magazine. Doerr observed the man standing at the check-in counter.

  The man was wearing a pair of black sunglasses, a black suit, and a black hat. Even his suitcase was pitch-black. Doerr looked the man over from top to bottom and took mental pictures as the man finished his check-in and gave a wide smile to the hotel clerk. The man proceeded to the elevator, and Doerr followed him.

  The elevator stopped at the eleventh floor, where the man got out and headed for his room. Doerr followed him slowly, without raising suspicion. The man stopped in front of his room, inserted his key and opened the door. Doerr could have easily stormed in and choked the guy to death, but he knew that there were risks that way – someone could pass by, or the man could surprise him with a secret weapon. Doerr walked by the door as it closed.

  An hour later, Doerr patiently waited at the window in his own hotel room. He had made a special request to be placed in the strategically located room. With a clear view of the hotel front, holding the loaded M16 rifle, binoculars clamped, he waited and watched.

  The man came out two hours later.

  Doerr raised his rifle. The crosshair fixed on the man’s head. There was no way he could miss the shot. He had trained for this kind of situation for days.

  But he lowered the rifle.

  AM I going to be a killer? An assassin? Doerr pondered the answer, and a few seconds later his mind was clear.

  He raised the rifle again; the man was still within range, with yards to spare.

  He put his index finger on the trigger – ready to shoot – but he hesitated again. He closed his eyes, hoping the man would walk away. Ten seconds later, when he opened his eyes, the man was walking back; he must have forgotten something. Doerr fixed the crosshair on the man’s head for the third time.

  I promised to do this, he told himself. A boy passed by the man, and he waited until the boy was at a safe distance.

  He took one last look and squeezed the trigger. Doerr watched the man drop to the ground as he absorbed the rifle recoil. He stood at the window for a few seconds. People were gathering around the dead man’s body, and he couldn’t see the crumpled corpse anymore. At least ten men stood, many looking up, trying to see where the bullet could have come from.

  Doerr quickly moved away from the window and unassembled the rifle, just like he had practiced before. Then he hit the bed and took a nap. At around seven in the evening, a man knocked on his door. Doerr opened the door and ushered the man in.

  Doerr handed over his rifle, unassembled and packed in a duffel bag.

  The man took the bag. “There is a limo waiting outside.”

  “For me?” Doerr asked.

  “Yes. The deputy director is waiting in his hotel. He wants to have a chat with you about the operation.”

  “Why can’t I just talk to him over the phone?” Doerr said in an irritated voice. He had already made plans with his old buddies to check out the local night clubs.

  “He said it’s important,” the man said and took a step back. From the man’s demeanor, Doerr knew he did not really have the option to carry out the conversation over the phone. “He has a call scheduled with the president later in the evening.”

  “Okay,” Doerr said with a sigh. He knew antagonizing the deputy director of the CIA would be suicide. It was barely a month since he had graduated from the agency’s one-year-long training program.

  The man left, and Doerr called his buddy and gave him the bad news.

  Twenty minutes later, Doerr walked out o
f the hotel and got into the waiting limo, which took him to another five-star hotel, where the deputy director was occupying the Presidential Suite. The suite was fitted with a red-decorated Persian carpet. Two large crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Doerr had never seen such colossal chandeliers before.

  Doerr sat on the plush sofa and waited for the deputy director to appear, which he did about fifteen minutes later. Doerr instantly recognized him. He had seen the middle-aged but skinny man’s picture before, but he was meeting the deputy director in person for the first time.

  Doerr stood up. “A pleasure meeting you, sir.”

  “Sit, sit.” The deputy director made a hand gesture. “Just call me Nick. We are all colleagues.”

  Doerr sat down; Nick sat opposite him and continued, “I am pleasantly surprised by the nice work you did today. I guess Ted was right.”

  Ted was the CIA recruiter who had taken Doerr in, a year earlier.

  “I didn’t believe him at first,” Nick continued. “But when your trainer also said that you’re good at everything, especially sniping, I had full confidence in you. It’s unusual.”

  Doerr frowned. “What is unusual, sir?” He immediately corrected himself. “Nick?”

  “To send a rookie like you to such a job. But obviously I made the right decision.”

  “About that, Nick,” Doerr said. “Who is the man I just killed?” He had been given a file earlier with the physical details of the target. But the detail he was interested in was not included in the file – the target’s identity, which Doerr suddenly became determined to find out.

  Nick’s face became gloomy; he looked at Doerr and then at the floor.

  Nick raised his face and made an effort to cheer up. “Let’s have some champagne first.” Nick made a hand gesture to someone inside one of the rooms in the suite.

  Doerr didn’t see anyone else, but within half a minute, a man appeared in chef’s dress and held a plate with two glasses of champagne.

  Nick took one glass, and Doerr took the other one.

  “Cheers, young man.” Nick raised his glass and touched Doerr’s. Glasses collided, the clinking noise was heard, and the yellowish fluid made small waves inside the glasses. The two men sipped their alcohol. “You have been a catch for the agency. You are our assassin. You are the assassin. Cheers.” Nick laughed loudly.

  For few seconds, no one spoke.

  “Nick,” Doerr finally opened his mouth, “so who was that man?”

  “The man,” raising the glass to his lips, Nick continued with a grumpy tone, “you will see all the details in tomorrow’s newspaper.”

  Doerr dithered about what to do. He was already forming a negative opinion of Nick. He was pissed that he’d had to give up a fun-filled night and come all the way to meet this cuss, who would not answer a simple question with a simple reply.

  Nick emptied his glass. “Well, thanks for coming, Max. I have to get ready to call the president. Meanwhile, you can enjoy drinks at the club downstairs. I was there earlier.” Nick winked. “The girls there are very pretty.”

  Nick rose from the sofa, but Doerr just sat there. He made a decision. He needed to know who that man was. The newspapers would not have the right information. In fact, the CIA training had taught him that the information that appeared in newspapers was barely fifty percent of the real thing.

  Doerr stood up and faced Nick. “Sir, and I’m going to only call you sir. I need to know who that man was. Or else I’m not leaving this place.”

  Nick finished the wine in the glass he was holding and picked up another from the chef, who was standing by with a tray with two fresh champagne glasses. Nick finished the first half of his second glass and made a gesture to the chef, who laid the plate down on the coffee table and left. Nick was visibly intoxicated. Doerr saw that, but he was also desperate to get the answer to his question.

  Was he a bad man? How bad?

  Was he a good man? Unlikely.

  Doerr walked over to Nick, held him by his shoulders and then made him sit down on the sofa gently. Nick eased his butt into the sofa, his face red and breath thick with alcohol.

  How is he going to talk to the president now? Doerr wondered. But to Doerr that was a second worry. First, he needed his answer.

  Doerr knelt down in front of Nick and placed a hand on his knee. “Sir, who was that man? It is biting into my conscience, and I have to know now, sir.”

  “Conscience, conscience,” Nick barked and made a dismissive move with his right hand. “Why does everyone have a conscience? Why can’t you just do what your employer tells you to?”

  “Sir,” realizing that convincing was the best way to go at the point, Doerr said politely, “if I know exactly who that man was and why he needed to die, I will be able to do my next job more decisively and with more precision.”

  Nick sighed, looked at the floor again and breathed heavily; Doerr was not sure whether it was from the effect of the alcohol or something else.

  “Sir?” Doerr said and looked straight into the deputy director’s eyes.

  “Okay,” Nick said. “I’ll tell you, but you have to promise me you’ll keep it zipped. And if the word leaks to the press, then your ass will be on fire, regardless of whether you leaked it or someone else did. Deal?”

  “Deal.” Doerr had no hesitation in his voice.

  “All right.” Nick shifted his position on the sofa. “The man’s name is David Khan.”

  “David Khan?”

  “Yes, yes. Weird name.” Nick rolled his eyes. “His parents called him Javed Khan, but he changed his name later. His parents came to America from Pakistan years ago. David Khan was born in Detroit. When he went to college, he changed his name. He dropped out at the beginning of his junior year. Then he opened an auto parts company. Within three years, he was doing business worth one hundred million, which was very odd, given that the auto industry was in decline. Rumor was that his money came from the Saudis, the snakes. But nothing could be proved. Anyway, after he became super-rich, he funneled money to terrorists all over the world. Some in law enforcement said he was harboring terrorists right here on American soil.” Nick paused and took a sip, and then he continued. “David had strong connections with the Molinaros too, the Motor City crime family.”

  “If he had so much mud on his jacket, then why couldn’t he be arrested?”

  “Good question. But no one was ever able to catch him with his hand in the cookie jar. His foreign financial transactions were untraceable. And he is an American citizen, born in America. So, you get the picture.” Nick looked at his wristwatch. “So let me wrap it up here. I have to call the president in just a few minutes. The Molinaros were having a sort of conference in that hotel, and David was going too. And then we got the call.”

  “From who?” Doerr asked awkwardly. “The Molinaros?”

  “No, dumbass.” Nick checked his watch again, and he stood up. “The FBI. They called me and asked me for help. And we helped them. Actually, you did. Good job, my boy.” Nick tapped Doerr’s shoulder and turned to leave. “Now I gotta make a call.”

  “Just one last question, sir.”

  Nick looked annoyed. “Okay. Make it quick.”

  “What happens now?”

  “Well, you know how these guys are. They are shaking one hand and fighting with the other hand. David and the Molinaros had their differences. It’s well known, and we have already spread words that the Molinaros got rid of David, and I see no reason why the world should not believe that. Now I think the Molinaros will fold some of their operations and keep a low profile till the dust settles. And the FBI can take credit for cutting crime in Detroit. So everyone is happy. Now…”

  Before Nick could finish his sentence, a man came out of one of the rooms with a phone in one hand. “Sir, the president is on line one. He is quite pissed. Says he has been waiting for your call.”

  Doerr looked at Nick, whose cheeks were turning pink and eyes cloudy.

  “Thanks, sir. A
nd good luck with that.” Doerr jerked his head toward the phone and then walked out.

  All that had happened fifteen years back. Since then, he had killed many who were deemed to be the enemies by the CIA. He had done assassination jobs all over the world, including the one in the Caribbean. One of his jobs was on Playa Juanillo Beach, in the Dominican Republic. That was how he knew the place so well.

  After twelve long years of service in the intelligence, Doerr had quit the agency out of disgust for politics, and it was around that time he had met Gayle and had taken an editing job in New York.

  Chapter 2

  It was nine fifteen p.m. when Doerr reached his two-bedroom apartment on Seventy-First Street. He unlocked the door, and as he entered, he saw Gayle sitting in front of the TV with sleepy eyes. She stood up as Doerr gave her an empty stare. When he came back to the living room after changing his clothes, Gayle looked ready to hit the bed.

  “How was your day, hon?” she asked.

  “Okay,” Doerr said with an expressionless face. “Nothing special.”

  “I have the day off tomorrow.”

  “Nice.” He sat down on the sofa.

  For a minute, they watched the news on TV. “Now that you talk so little, I don’t know what I’ll do, sitting home alone the whole day.”

  “Go to the mall or something.”

  “No, I don’t like shopping anymore. Should I go to the police station and see if they’ve made any progress?”

  “No,” Doerr said. “I’ve already been there three times this week. I think we should let them do their job. You look sleepy. Perhaps you should go to bed.”

  A few minutes later, Gayle heeded his suggestion and headed for bed.

  The next morning, Gayle woke up in Max’s arms. It was nine a.m. and unusual for her to wake up so late. She was an early rising girl; her routine included getting up at seven, dashing through the bathroom, and then rushing to the train station to catch the 7:35 Line Six train to Grand Central. Once there, she would then switch to a Line Two train and be at her cubicle by 8:45. The IT job often forced her to work unsocial hours.