The Scientist (Max Doerr Book 2)

by Jay Deb

With an elaborate plan, Doerr had planted three bombs under Rafan’s limo. In an unmarked car, with the remote control for the detonator in his hand, Doerr was waiting for Rafan to get into the limo. Another lucky day for Rafan – he’d got a date with a model and called up a better and bigger limo.

  Then an attempt was made in Amsterdam, which also ended in failure. The handler’s foolishness, not allowing Doerr to hire his own cab, could have been the reason for the failure.

  Now, sitting in his New York apartment, Doerr was thinking, and he was sure he needed to go incognito and do all the work by himself, with little to no help from the agency. No one in the agency should know his plan beforehand.

  Over the years, Doerr had developed relations with many people all over the world, including gang members, foreign government officials, arms dealers and journalists with connections to terrorists and other ruffians. Relation-building had been a priority for him, and some of those connections had become a source for the agency.

  A good relation could end a project sooner than the deadline. A good relation might mean the difference between life and death. The relation could be with an ex-government employee who was not abiding by all the rules in the books, or a mafia guy who provided intelligence, or the people who stood on the edge of terrorism, in the gray area, folks who provided logistics and arms to the terrorists but did not actually believe in terrorists’ tenets. It wasn’t possible to kill them all; sometimes it was necessary to aid them, keep them alive so that they could provide intelligence to the agency or become a double agent for a hefty price.

  Doerr contacted everyone he could trust, collecting data on Rafan. He made phone calls and exchanged over a thousand emails. Some gave a few leads, but most had nothing. To follow the leads, Doerr spent a month in Saudi Arabia, two weeks in Egypt, and one week each in Somalia and Nigeria, but he came up with nothing. So he returned to New York.

  And then, from a reliable source, he received information that Rafan was somewhere in Riyadh, making a business transaction.

  Doerr purchased a ticket for a flight from John F Kennedy Airport to King Khalid International Airport immediately and boarded the plane from terminal eight at seven p.m. the same day.

  As the United Airline aircraft took off into the starry sky, he envisioned Rafan alone in a hotel room. A part of his heart filled up with the hope of delivering a painful death to Rafan, and the other part filled with the melancholy of losing Gayle, her love, and everything she had been to him. The sadness gripped his chest like a tightening noose, demanding an answer why Rafan’s death had not been realized yet.

  As the aircraft’s pilot announced that the seat belt could be removed now, as they had reached a safe height, Doerr sat there like a piece of stone, eyes closed.

  Chapter 6 Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  The flight was uneventful except for a few jerks when the plane ran into some bad weather, but it was nothing compared to the shakings he had experienced in fighter jets.

  After disembarking, he stood in the long line for immigration, a Turkish passport in one hand and a pocketbook Arabic Koran in the other. He could read Arabic fairly well, and he was enthralled by the rhyme and rhythm of the language. He believed there wasn’t that much difference between what Islam and Christianity taught their followers. Some followers just interpreted Islam to suit their need for violence, blood and cruelty to women.

  As he progressed toward the immigration counter, he continued to read the Koran; it helped him blend in as well. When he reached the counter, he handed over the Turkish passport, which had been stamped properly by the artists of the CIA.

  The male clerk took it and carefully examined the passport. He flipped a couple of pages, and then he glanced at Doerr, trying to match the passport’s picture with Doerr’s face, which sported a Muslim-style beard that Doerr had put on in his New York apartment about ten hours back.

  “Name?” the clerk asked in Arabic, which was one of the five languages Doerr could speak fluently.

  “Kader. Kader Mustafa,” Doerr uttered the name in his passport.

  The clerk glanced at the passport photo and looked at Doerr’s face one more time. Finally, the clerk appeared to be satisfied as he raised the immigration rubber stamp and brought it down on a blank page of Doerr’s passport.

  The clerk signed the visa seal and handed the passport back to Doerr. “Welcome to Saudi Arabia, Mr. Mustafa.”

  “Ma salama,” said Doerr and then proceeded to the baggage area.

  DOERR TOOK UP residence in a three-star hotel near King Abdulla Road in Riyadh. It was a hotel that provided him with just the right amenities – a room with a good lock, a working phone, a bathroom that had hot water most of the time, and a security guard who would not let beggars in but wasn’t sophisticated enough to find and report Doerr’s unusual activities, such as calling from an encrypted phone, video recording in front of the hotel, walking around with sunglasses that had inbuilt cameras, or loading and unloading cartridges into guns.

  Doerr soon came to know a person named Faisal Md, who ran a shish kabob shop near a mall, but his real job was to work as an informant. Faisal had been hired by the CIA in 2008, and he’d provided valuable information about terrorists connected to the local mullahs, but the CIA had long suspected that Faisal was a double agent and was reporting the CIA’s data-gathering patterns to GIP, the General Intelligence Presidency, Saudi Arabia’s intelligence branch, some of whose personnel were allegedly reporting them to al-Qaeda.

  But the CIA had kept Faisal on the payroll. The agency couldn’t afford to remove another informant from an already depleting pool of sources in Saudi Arabia.

  Doerr contacted Faisal as soon as he’d landed in Riyadh. After some persuasion and an advance payment, Faisal gave the name of a street goon who was said to be close to Rafan’s circle in Saudi Arabia.

  Doerr contacted the goon, and the goon said Rafan was going to be in Riyadh in the next couple of weeks, and he was willing to divulge a date, time, and location where Rafan could be found – for a price. Doerr paid an initial amount of ten thousand dollars of his own money. But the next day the source demanded more money, and Doerr knew he’d been played. But he wasn’t frustrated because of the money loss; money was the least important thing on his mind.

  Faisal gave another name, and Doerr went to Mecca in pursuit of the new man. But it yielded no result, so he returned to Riyadh.

  A week later, when all attempts to locate Rafan had failed, Doerr was ready to leave Saudi Arabia. He was contemplating a visit to the war-torn city Atarib in Syria, where, according to some unconfirmed reports, Rafan often visited, delivering weapons to al-Qaeda.

  In his hotel room, Doerr was enjoying a sumptuous dinner of shish kabob and goat biryani delivered from a nearby restaurant, conceivably his last meal in the Riyadh hotel. Once done with his food, Doerr went downstairs, heading out for an after-dinner saunter.

  The hotel clerk, a young Filipino man, stopped him in the lobby. “Mr. Mustafa.”

  Doerr kept walking and then remembered he was Mustafa.

  “Yes.” Doerr turned and faced the clerk.

  “Your friend come by,” the clerk said in English, picked up an envelope, and held it out for Doerr. “He ask me to give you this.”

  Doerr took it. He wanted to open the envelope, but it could be a letter bomb. “What was the friend’s name?”

  “Hamid, he said.”

  “Did he say what’s in this envelope?”

  “He say it has something important for you.”

  “Hmm.” Doerr was thinking hard. The letter could have explosives. Or it could hold an anonymous tip. “What did Hamid look like?”

  “He an old man. Over fifty. Bald.”

  “Was he well built?”

  “What?” The clerk did not understand the question.

  “Was Hamid a healthy guy?”

  “Yes. Healthy. Very healthy. Big muscles.”

  “How tall do you think he was?”

  The clerk f
rowned at this question. “You know the man or not. I call police if man not your friend. Hotel owner give me strict order. Call police if anything suspicious happen.”

  Doerr guessed that the owner had told the clerk to call the police if any stranger came by to the hotel. Calling the police was the last thing Doerr needed the clerk to do. “No, no. Hamid is my friend,” said Doerr. “I was just trying to verify it was indeed Hamid.”

  “Okay.” A smile of relief showed up on the clerk’s face.

  “Listen, next time Hamid comes here. Just call me. Okay?” Doerr gave the clerk a hundred-riyal bill.

  Doerr wanted to examine the letter, but he proceeded with his nightly walk to maintain normalcy and not invoke the clerk’s suspicion.

  Doerr strolled outside for the usual ten minutes.

  When he came back to his room, he laid the envelope on the table, held a flashlight above it, and examined it. It didn’t look like a bomb. The best way to find out was to take it to the agency’s safe house in the city and have it examined by experts. He neither had the patience nor the time.

  After putting on safety glasses, first Doerr made a puncture in the envelope with a fork. Nothing happened. He carefully tore open the paper, revealing a piece of paper inside. He took his glasses off and unfolded it. Inside, a typed message was written in English:

  Mr. Doerr,

  I can lead you to what you want. Please meet me tomorrow at 4 p.m. at Sadat Food, just a block away from your hotel. Please don’t call police or bring anyone with you. Come alone. I will help you. If you bring someone or have someone watch me, you will never see me.

  Regards,

  Your friend

  Doerr started thinking. If someone calls himself a friend, he probably isn’t. If someone comes knocking, offering help, then he probably has his own reason and self-interest. Maybe he wishes to exchange help for money or something else. But most likely Hamid is an enemy or an enemy’s agent. The fact that he knows my real name is bad enough. The meet-up may be a trap. Perhaps a bomb will go off or a rain of bullets from a machine gun. I have been looking for Rafan, but Rafan has found me, maybe. Time to meet Hamid.

  He started pacing in his hotel room. It was a foregone conclusion that he would meet Hamid tomorrow. The question was what precautions he would take.

  The next day, at three p.m., he put on a Kevlar vest and other protections, covering his entire body except his face, and then he put on a loose white Middle Eastern-style tunic. He took his helmet and walked downstairs to the hotel door, where a man was waiting with a motorbike. Doerr had paid the man earlier in the day to bring the vehicle to him.

  It was a Harley-Davidson, at least ten years old. Doerr sat on top of it and started the engine. In two minutes, he was in front of Sadat Food, a low-priced restaurant. He let the motorbike rest on its kickstand and then marched toward the restaurant’s entrance, helmet still on as if he had forgotten to take it off. He was now mostly protected from an exploding bomb or bullets, exposing only his face.

  As he neared the entrance, a man, wearing a traditional white thobe, came out of the restaurant. Obviously he’d been waiting for Doerr behind the glass door.

  “Come with me,” the man said surreptitiously in Arabic and started trotting on the pavement, without checking if Doerr was following him.

  “Tell me who you are?” Doerr followed the man. Judging by the brisk pace of the man’s walking, it looked like the man was also afraid of lingering in this area.

  “We should get to a safe place first.”

  “Where can we go?”

  “We can get in a taxi.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Doerr said as he took his helmet off. “Tell me, what do you want?”

  “I want nothing.”

  “Then why are you helping me?”

  “It’s a long story. Why don’t we talk in the taxi?”

  “Okay. You know my name. At least tell me your real name?”

  “Ibrahim.”

  Doerr and Ibrahim walked briskly. They reached a junction where the road intersected with a wider one, where buses and taxis were going up and down the road.

  Ibrahim raised his hand. One taxi passed by, but the second one stopped.

  Before Ibrahim could say anything, to make sure it was not a setup for kidnapping, Doerr said to Ibrahim, “Let this one go. We catch the next cab.” Ibrahim might have made an arrangement with this cabbie to kidnap Doerr.

  “Why?” Ibrahim gave him an annoyed look.

  “I didn’t like the cab. It’s old,” Doerr lied as the cab sprinted away.

  Another cab stopped at Ibrahim’s waving. Ibrahim said to the cabbie, “Jami Masjid Mosque.”

  The cabbie nodded. Doerr knew it would take at least a half hour to reach the mosque, giving them ample time to speak. Ibrahim held the rear door open for Doerr to enter. After Doerr was inside the vehicle, Ibrahim got in.

  The cab started moving. “Now tell me your story,” Doerr said in Arabic. “How do you know me?”

  Ignoring Doerr’s question, Ibrahim said in English, “Mr. Doerr, I have two brothers. Rather, I had two brothers.”

  Doerr knew Ibrahim spoke in English to evade the cabbie’s ears, and his English was okay for a person from the Middle East, just a little accent. “What happened?”

  “I born in Khaybar, not far from Medina. My father was a school teacher. Very religious man. He used to take we three brothers to Mecca every year during Hajj. One year we missed and Father was sick and he died. After Father’s death, my mother couldn’t feed us. I was the eldest brother. One uncle took younger brother to Tabuk to raise him. Another uncle took my youngest brother to Riyadh. So we got separated. Before separating, three of us vowed that no matter where we live, when we grow up we will always meet at Mecca during Hajj. And we kept that promise.”

  The cab was moving faster now, on a highway, and Doerr was getting bored with the story. He was interested in knowing where to find Rafan, not where Ibrahim’s brothers grew up. Feigning interest in Ibrahim’s story, Doerr said, “Really? That’s just great. You all are good Muslims.”

  “Yes, we met every year. Till last year.”

  “What happened?”

  “Last year my youngest brother Akhtar was killed…by Rafan.”

  Doerr knew something like that was a possibility. “How? And why?”

  “My brother worked in government. He used to inspect sites for new buildings and issue clearances. Rafan needed one for building a big complex, and my brother refused it. So Rafan killed my brother, shot from behind. Someone saw.” Ibrahim sighed.

  “Don’t worry Ibrahim. I’ll take care of Rafan; just tell me where I can find him.”

  “I know he is coming to Riyadh next Monday.” Ibrahim looked outside through the window.

  Doerr waited for ten seconds and then he asked softly, “Where will he be?”

  “I know,” said Ibrahim and stared at his palm.

  “Tell me how much money you need. I can have a reasonable sum transferred in twenty-four hours.” Doerr looked into Ibrahim’s eyes. “How much?”

  “Don’t give me money, Mr. Doerr.”

  “Then what do you want in return for the info about Rafan.”

  “My other brother Aslam Saleb is in jail.”

  “Why, what happened to him?”

  “He is a journalist. Was. One day he wrote a piece about our monarchs not doing anything for poor people. In your country perhaps people pay you dollars if you say bad things about Obama. Here different. Secret police caught him and put him in jail. Judge give him ten years. This is his first year in Ulaysha Prison.”

  “You are having one tough year.”

  Ibrahim nodded, his face gloomy. Turning to Doerr, Ibrahim asked, “Can you get him out of jail? Me and my family will be always grateful.”

  “No problem.” Doerr knew one phone call from Langley to the Saudi Ministry of Interior was all that was needed to have Ibrahim’s brother freed in less than twenty-four hours. “Consider it done if th
e information you’re about to give me is good and it leads to Rafan’s death. Then yes, you’ll get your revenge and your brother will be free. Now tell me where Rafan is going to be.”

  “He is going to stay in Idris Hotel. Forty minutes from here by cab. Not far from airport.”

  “Do you know his flight number or the airline he is flying with?”

  “No. I know he will be in Idris Hotel.”

  “You probably don’t have the room number. Right?”

  Ibrahim shook his head. No.

  “By what time he’ll be in the hotel? Can you guess?”

  “I guess by six.”

  “Morning or evening?”

  “Evening.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Very.”

  “Great. Now tell me your source.” Doerr knew he was not going to get an answer. Most informants liked to keep the origin of their info secret; otherwise they would lose relevance. But it was worth a try. “How do you know that Rafan will be in Idris Hotel by six on Monday?”

  “I have connections. Believe me.”

  Doerr knew Ibrahim was right. Ibrahim knew Doerr, his address and how to communicate with him. So Doerr now knew where Rafan would be on Monday, three days from now, and a man named Aslam Saleb, who was born in Khaybar, now languishing in Ulaysha Prison, had to be freed. Doerr knew he had to clear everything with Alison Stonewall, the CIA director, before moving to Idris Hotel on Monday. “One last question.”

  “Yes,” said Ibrahim.

  “How do I contact you if I ever need anything? A phone number or email.”

  “No phone. I have an email, but use it only if very very urgent.”

  “Okay.”

  “You want write it down?”

  “No. Just tell me, I’ll remember it.” Memory was Doerr’s special talent. In his college, he had impressed classmates by remembering sixteen-digit credit card numbers and the entire class’s birthdays.

  “Okay – aslam19760527 at gmail dot com.”

  Doerr committed the email address in his brain. “What is the date?”

  “That is Aslam’s birth date.”