by Jay Deb
“Got your cheeseburger.” Gibbs pointed at the McDonald’s take-out paper bag on the bed. “Eat, get some rest. We’re waiting for word when to move out.”
Janco almost ran toward the food, opened the bag, and started devouring the burger.
After finishing his food, he fell asleep on the bed.
JANCO WOKE UP on the bed and noticed Gibbs and Taylor sleeping on the same bed. The room’s darkness was violated only by a slice of light from the lamppost outside.
It was midnight, or it could be five in the morning; Janco couldn’t tell. He sat up and adjusted to the fact that he wasn’t in jail anymore. He stood up and headed for the bathroom with measured steps through the darkness, without turning the lights on, making sure not to wake up the two sleeping men.
Once inside the bathroom, Janco splashed warm water on his face, and it felt good, and he joyfully realized this was the first time he’d woken up a free man since his incarceration. After doing his business, he took a fresh use-and-throw razor blade from the toilet counter and smiled at it, a sharp contrast to the used razors he’d received in the jail. He applied the soap to his face and checked it in the mirror. The thick lather covered his face, and he felt his face muscles being massaged by it.
Minutes later, his shaving was done, no cut this time.
When he returned to the room, he saw the lights were on, Gibbs slipping out of his pajamas and putting on nicer clothes and Taylor still lying in the bed.
Gibbs glanced at Janco and then turned to Taylor. “Wake up.” He gave Taylor’s shoulder a shake.
Later, they were back on the highway. Gibbs drove this time and the woman sat in the passenger seat. Janco wanted to ask if his papers were ready but kept his mouth shut.
An hour later, the traffic became thicker, and Janco could see they were driving through a more populated area now. He mustered enough courage and asked Taylor, who was sitting next to him, “Where am I headed?”
Taylor said nothing for a few seconds and then looked out the window and said, “Italy.”
“Where in Italy?”
Taylor simply shook his head and looked outside, pretending to be keenly interested in the scenery outside, unwilling to divulge the location.
“Am I going to a good touristy place?” Janco inquired.
“Does it matter?”
Janco had other questions. Where will I stay? When do I meet the Iranians? Will you give me some money? More importantly, are the Feds after me?
But he decided to ask those questions later. Let me get out of America first, he thought.
He turned his head just to see if anyone was following – no one.
Janco observed that nobody in the car was concerned about being followed and looked relaxed and calm. The woman was dozing, Taylor enjoying the view outside, and Gibbs kept passing other vehicles. Janco wondered if that was because they were professionals or if they really weren’t who they’d said they were.
An hour later, Gibbs took an exit, filled up the gas tank, and bought some snacks and beverages. The woman took over the wheel, and Gibbs occupied the passenger seat again.
Later, they were at Los Angeles International Airport. The car stopped at the international terminal. Gibbs and Taylor alighted, and Janco understood he had to get out as well. Gibbs moved behind the car and took the suitcase out of the trunk. Without saying anything to the woman, Gibbs proceeded to the terminal’s gate. Janco watched the car moving away slowly, and the woman disappeared into oblivion.
When Janco turned his face to the terminal door, he saw Gibbs standing there with an irritated face and gave him the come on look. Taylor was gone.
As he stepped inside the terminal, Janco saw a police officer staring at him. He got a shiver down his leg but then realized the cop might not be looking for him. Janco followed Gibbs inside the terminal, passing the airline check-in counters and the passengers standing in the queue. It was a new scene for Janco, all the people, the polished floor, the TVs and the monitors all around – in the last two years he had seen something like this only on that CRT TV he was allowed to watch for an hour a day in the prison.
As Janco walked through the concourse, he saw the phones hanging on the cradles. His heart ached to make a call to Mark, his elder son, who was the only person who had kept any contact with him since his incarceration.
But he knew better. The Feds might be talking to him, and a trap might have been set already. He decided to call his son after reaching Italy.
“Take this,” Gibbs stuffed a hundred-dollar bill into Janco’s shirt pocket. “Buy what you like, but make it quick.”
Janco knew that he was leaving America, maybe for good, and Gibbs had realized Janco might want to take some American keepsake with him. Gibbs isn’t that bad a man, Janco thought. Maybe Gibbs had been under stress, and that was why he’d been so rude.
With the money in his pocket, Janco looked around. There was a chocolate shop, an alcohol store, a few fast food and coffee stalls. Janco entered a shop that displayed a number of newspapers and magazines.
He bought two newspapers, a copy of Time magazine and a large pack of M&M candy. He put the ninety-two dollars and forty-seven cents, returned by the clerk, in his pocket. As soon as Janco came out of the shop, Gibbs started walking, pulling his black carry-on suitcase.
A few minutes later, Janco saw Taylor waiting near a Starbucks, a bunch of papers in his hand, which he handed to Gibbs.
Janco smelled the aroma of coffee beans that smelled like the fragrance of freedom to him.
Gibbs checked the papers quickly and handed a passport to Janco, a piece of paper tucked inside the passport. Janco took it out and recognized it was an itinerary.
“The ticket says the destination is Milan,” Janco said to Gibbs.
“We fly to Milan. Then someone will pick us up and drive us to our final destination,” Gibbs said tersely.
“Will you be driving?”
“Stop asking stupid questions.”
Janco noticed Taylor was gone.
Later, Janco stood in front of the airline counter, holding the American passport – name: Jonathan Smolder, Janco’s fraudulent name. He tried to memorize it. The passport appeared as good as an original. Janco knew he was in good hands, if only he knew who exactly they were.
Maybe time would answer all his questions, so he patiently waited in the line that led to the airline check-in counter.
A few minutes later, he handed his passport to the lady at the counter and put on a smile just like the one in the picture on his passport. She flipped through a few pages, looked at the photo in the passport, and then at Janco. Apparently satisfied, she typed something into the keyboard.
The good thing about American immigration was that while going out of the country one didn’t have to be confronted by an unfriendly immigration officer, unlike in other countries. Janco knew that the airline employee wasn’t going to ask a whole bunch of questions unless there was a big red line dangling over his name on the monitor.
“Aisle seat?” the lady clerk asked.
He didn’t care; seat selection was the last thing on his mind. The first, second and third thing on his mind was how to get the hell out of America. He would sit on the roof if no seats were available.
“Yes, please,” he said politely.
The lady again typed something into the keyboard, and then his boarding pass came out of the noisy printer. Janco took it and stepped to the side, waiting for Gibbs to finish his check-in.
Soon, Janco and Gibbs were heading for the security gate, their plane about to take off in thirty-five minutes.
On the way, he saw Taylor waiting near a pillar. Janco could see Gibbs and Taylor exchanging winks and nods, a sign indicating that everything was going okay and as planned.
But will everything be okay for me? Janco wondered.
WHEN THE BOEING 777 took off into the air, it was about eight p.m. Janco watched the streetlights disappear as the aircraft gained altitude, perhaps his last si
ght of America, unless the FBI captured him and dragged his ass back to his motherland someday.
On the display monitor, he saw the plane leave American airspace and felt a wave of calm envelope him. The first stage of his escape had been completed.
He looked at Gibbs, who was sitting next to him, reading a book, his entire attention pinned on it. But Janco knew Gibbs was hearing everything around him, observing everyone around him. Janco came to the realization that this man was meticulous, and he planned and executed his mission without flaw. He started admiring Gibbs – the man giving him his freedom.
The plane attained a height of thirty thousand feet, and Janco felt a feeling of euphoria pass over him. The passenger in the window seat had shuttered the window, and Janco wondered if this plane was being chased by a fighter jet of some kind like they show in movies.
Knowing the chance of that was little to none, Janco closed his eyes, hoping to get some sleep.
Chapter 4 Italy
Seven hours later, the plane touched down at Milan Malpensa Airport, and Janco disembarked without any incident. It was early morning there. After finishing the immigration process, Janco let out a sigh of relief. Free at last.
He glanced at the Italian tourist visa stamp on his American passport, closed it, and was about to put it in his pocket.
“Let me see something,” Gibbs said and snatched the passport from Janco’s hand. Gibbs looked at it seriously as if checking something, flipped a few pages, closed it, and then he tucked it in his pants’ pocket.
Stupefied, Janco looked at Gibbs, who was marching forward, focused on the path ahead.
After setting foot in Italy, he’d been feeling a little bolder and decided to press Gibbs.
Janco took a deep breath and touched Gibbs’s shoulder. “Roger.”
“Yes.” Gibbs stopped and turned toward Janco, contempt showing on Gibbs’s face.
“Can I have my passport back?” Janco asked. They both moved to the wall, making sure others passing by weren’t obstructed.
“I need something to be checked first,” Gibbs said.
“What and by whom?” Janco stood his ground.
“You don’t have to know. Let’s just get out right now. Our car must be waiting.”
“When can I get my passport back?”
“Technically it’s not yours. And you’ll get it back when you need it.” Gibbs started walking again, and Janco followed. Janco knew any more aggressiveness might get him into trouble.
When Janco and Gibbs came out of the terminal, a white compact car was waiting for them, driven by a young man.
A half hour later, that car was moving on European Route E64, heading for Turin, the final destination as per what Gibbs had told Janco minutes before.
The traffic thinned out as the car left Milan, the center of economic activity in the country, the second most populous city in Italy. Janco knew the city was founded by the Insubres, the Celtic people. In its history, the city was dominated by many other countries – France, Spain, and Austria – until it was annexed by the Kingdom of Italy in 1859.
The sun came out in full blast as the car drove by a number of hills, giving Janco a scenic view. Janco had been to Italy a few times, but he’d never visited this area.
Though Janco had gobbled up every morsel of food they’d given him in the plane, he was hungry now. But filling his stomach wasn’t a priority. He wanted to know what his accommodation arrangement would be. Who would be around? Was there any chance the FBI would show up and take him back to the Nevada jail?
Janco was once again in a car heading for a safe place, Gibbs seated nearby. Janco craved to know if they could stop for some food.
There’s no point in asking the asshole Gibbs – he won’t listen, thought Janco. He’d just have to wait till Gibbs himself became hungry. A part of Janco admired Gibbs for what he’d done for him, but another part just hated Gibbs for his disparaging treatment of Janco and taking away his passport. Janco felt like opening the vehicle’s door and then running away, but he knew with virtually no money in his pocket and no passport, he’d be in big trouble if he did that.
Janco wanted to ask Gibbs how long he would be in Turing and what would be the next destination. Maybe Gibbs wasn’t aware of everything. He remembered the woman who’d driven them to Los Angeles; his passport surely had been delivered to Taylor by someone, and now the car was being driven by a local man, who spoke only broken English. There was a good possibility that someone Janco didn’t know was running the whole show from behind the scenes. But why, and what exactly do they want?
AFTER THE THREE-HOUR ride and a quick snack break on the way, Janco saw a welcome sign for Turin on the side of the road. As the car rolled into the city, Janco could see the tip of Mole Antonelliana, the tallest brick building in the world.
Later, the vehicle stopped in front of a four-story hotel. From the appearance of its exterior, Janco deduced that it wasn’t the best hotel in the city.
“Stay here,” Gibbs said, and he got out of the vehicle and headed for the registration office.
Soon, Janco was let inside the hotel through a back door, obviously to keep him out of the hotel employees’ view.
Janco entered his hotel room on the third floor. It was a much better place than the shoddy motel in California. This room was smaller but cleaner, and there was no musty smell inside. A queen-size bed lay in the middle of the room, well lit by four fluorescent light bulbs. The room was about fifteen by twenty feet, Janco estimated. He checked out the bathroom, which wasn’t bad; the toilet looked clean. When he tried to flush it, it did not cooperate. After four jerks, the water finally flowed into the bowl, which was much larger than a typical toilet bowl in America. There was a brush lying next to the bowl, and Janco wondered if he’d have to use it frequently to clean. He came out of the bathroom and pulled aside the window curtain. It was nine p.m., and darkness had already fallen, so all he could see were some distant streetlights. Janco turned and looked at Gibbs.
“It would be best if you kept those curtains closed all the time,” said Gibbs.
“Okay.” Janco sighed, turned around, and closed the curtain.
“Now this is going to be your home for a couple of weeks.” Gibbs sounded tired. “Here are the rules. Never step outside your room, for your own safety. Never call anyone for anything. If you call someone back home, know the FBI will be here to pick you up in less than twenty-four hours and we all will be in trouble.”
Janco nodded. He understood the risk. “Who do I call if I need food or something?”
“You call me. Dial 6470 from that phone.” Gibbs pointed to a handset lying on the small table next to the bed. “I’ll get you food, coffee, everything. If I don’t pick up, just wait a little bit and call again. Never talk to the room-service people.”
“What if the toilet doesn’t work? Who do I call?”
Gibbs thought for a few seconds. “Me. Definitely me. You don’t know Italian language anyway, do you?”
Janco shook his head. “What do I do the whole day?”
“You can watch TV.”
“Do they have American channels?”
“I think they do. I’ll check it out tomorrow. If they don’t, I’ll get you magazines and some novels.”
“I don’t read novels.”
“Okay, then I’ll get you English newspapers. Now I’m feeling tired, and I’m going to head to my room.”
“Yeah, you’re exhausted,” Janco said, trying to mollify Gibbs.
Paying no heed to what Janco had just said, Gibbs opened the door to exit. “And once again, do not get out of this room. Do not call anyone other than me, and do not try to see me in my room.”
“Okay,” said Janco. “One question. Can I have my passport back?”
“No,” said Gibbs and left the room immediately.
This is like just another jail, thought Janco as he lay down on the bed.
THE NEXT MORNING, when Janco woke up, he went straight to the window
and opened the curtain. He was happy with what he saw. There was a pond surrounded by a number of short European olive trees and the cypress trees that looked like a green stick popping out of the ground. The view was pleasing, and it brought a soothing calm to his eyes, a sharp contrast to the twelve-foot-high wall that surrounded the prison where he’d been about forty-eight hours back.
Chapter 5 New York
Doerr’s wife had been killed by Rafan Sohail, a man with links to the world of terrorism, and he ranked pretty high up in the hierarchy of Saudi Arabian mafia.
The CIA had a thick file on Rafan. One day the man could be in Riyadh, and the next day he’d be whacking a guy in Rome, and another day in the same week, he and his cohorts could be making an arms deal with Afghan warlords. It was believed some rogue nations like North Korea used Rafan for various work such as acquiring sophisticated weaponry.
The agency had promised Doerr they would nail Rafan. When that hadn’t happened, the agency had promised him all the help needed to terminate Rafan.
“We want to get rid of Rafan as well,” his handler had said. “His name was high on our list. Now with your wife’s death, he has moved even higher. And Max, you’re the right person to terminate Rafan.”
By this time Doerr had recovered about eighty percent from his injuries, and he’d liked the new plan better, going after Rafan himself.
The first attempt to eliminate Rafan had been made in Russia, where Rafan was to meet with an arms dealer in an upscale restaurant inside Garden Ring in Moscow.
With the help from some agency personnel, Doerr had planned to put poison in Rafan’s drink that would have killed him within six minutes. If the plan had worked, Rafan would have been dead long before an ambulance arrived. But Rafan never showed up.
The second attempt had been made in Moldova. Rafan was going to attend a fashion show in Chisinau. Watching the girls was Rafan’s favorite hobby; he’d make a pass and win an occasional date with one of the models.