The Scientist (Max Doerr Book 2)

by Jay Deb

  “It’s a long story. I’ll give you a short synopsis.”

  “Okay.” Lugar shook the cigar to get rid of the ash. Maya came in with a tray, and she served coffee and cookies to everyone as Doerr continued to speak, describing the circumstances under which the scientist had gone missing.

  “Has anyone seen him since they lost him in Turin?” Lugar asked once Doerr was done.

  “No.”

  “It has been over a month. So he could be anywhere right now.”

  “That’s correct,” said Ariella. “But given the circumstances, we believe he is still in Europe, maybe Italy.”

  “I disagree,” said Doerr. “I think we can rule out Italy.”

  “Where do you think he is?” Lugar asked Doerr.

  “My hunch is here in France or Switzerland.”

  “Has there been any intercepted communication?” Lugar asked. “Like a phone call, email? Your agency is expert at invading people’s privacy,” he added sarcastically.

  “No,” Doerr said. “Nothing. We have been listening on Janco’s son’s phone calls, watching the son’s email accounts and his wife’s. So far, there was just one call from Janco and it was of no use.”

  “Then he’s probably dead. I mean, he was in a foreign country, no papers, no money, not in good health. Isn’t it safe to assume that he’s dead?”

  “Maybe he is dead,” said Ariella. “But we can’t assume that. We have to keep looking.”

  “I agree with Ariella on that,” said Doerr. “We have to keep searching till we find him, dead or alive.”

  “Now,” said Lugar. “Tell me how can I help? What exactly can I do?”

  “We want you to spread the word around and see if you can locate him,” said Doerr. “I’m sure we aren’t the only ones hunting for the scientist. We wish to know who else is looking for him. That was the original goal of our agency anyway.”

  “I’ll do it, Max. I’ll do it for the country I was born in. But I want to make sure I get something in return.”

  Doerr sat up straight. “What do you wish to have?” His eyebrows curved.

  “I know a guy. Let’s just say he isn’t my best friend.”

  Doerr and Ariella nodded.

  “He goes to rural Somalia sometimes,” Lugar said.

  “And?” said Doerr.

  “I want your agency to take him out. Drone or something. I can provide a time and the coordinates.”

  Doerr laughed. Some people had a belief that the CIA randomly dropped bombs from drones and killed whoever came into their thoughts, but the reality was entirely different. Every drone attack was carefully chosen, meticulously verified, and had to be approved at multiple levels.

  “Why are you laughing?” Lugar took another drag from his cigar. “I have done a lot of favors in the past for free. I think it’s time for me to get something in return.”

  “I think he’s right,” Ariella said to Doerr.

  “Okay,” Doerr said to Lugar, trying not to rile him. “I’ll speak to my boss once I get something concrete from you and after we catch the scientist.”

  “Deal,” said Lugar. “Remember your promise when the time comes.”

  “I will.” Doerr rose from his chair, knowing full well that he wouldn’t be able to keep the promise he’d just made. If Lugar would provide a useful tip, then he’d have to be happy with some cash or something less dramatic than the death of his enemy, who was obviously out of the reach of Lugar’s claws.

  Ten minutes later, Doerr and Ariella stepped out of Lugar’s house. They started pacing toward the taxi stand located about ten minutes’ walk away. No one else was strolling on the road, one or two cars passing by every minute. The temperature in Paris hovered around a pleasant twenty degrees Celsius.

  “Why does he keep claiming to be American and served in the military and all that?” Ariella asked.

  “Maybe he likes to project himself as a strongman.”

  “Maybe the CIA has left him alone for so long because he says he is an American.”

  “No, if you’re an arms dealer, then you’re better off being a non-American. Trust me. The CIA would be more eager to let a non-American live than an American.”

  They walked for a minute silently, and then Doerr lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

  “That thing isn’t good for you,” Ariella said, pointing to the cigarette.

  “When life is meaningless,” said Doerr, “and all hope gone, then what would a damaged lung do to me?”

  “I know the tragedy you’ve had. Things always change. Clouds move away.”

  Doerr looked at Ariella; she was the fifth or sixth person to urge him to give up smoking, and just to make her happy, Doerr threw the smoldering cigarette on the road and crushed it with his foot.

  “How did you get started in the intelligence business?” Doerr asked her.

  “I applied for an operative’s job at our agency two times and was rejected on both occasions.” She laughed.

  “That must have stunk.”

  “Not really. I expected hardship in my job. So there I was – rejected twice.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I applied again.”

  “Then you were accepted?”

  “No. I was rejected again. But this time the interviewer told me what I’d have to do to be accepted by them.”

  “What?”

  “They told me I’ve got to work in the military or the police department and move up to a lieutenant-equivalent post and then if I apply, I’d have a better chance. So I joined the local police as an officer. It took three years to become a lieutenant and then I joined Mossad. And after a two-year-long training I became a katsa.”

  “When was your first kill?”

  “I.” Ariella paused. “Wait, I seem to be answering all the questions. It’s my turn. How did you join the CIA?”

  “An agency recruiter approached me when I was in the final year of college. Offered me a job and I accepted and started working. Rather started training.”

  “That simple, huh?”

  “Yes. That simple. I guess there wasn’t that much competition for these jobs and the bar isn’t very high either. At least not as high as it is in your country, obviously. You probably know that our army and navy have to offer a bunch of goodies to get the guys to enlist. It’s not like the way it is in your country.”

  She nodded. “That’s what I heard.”

  The taxi stand was nearby and they continued their walk toward it.

  “I heard about your personal losses. How did all that happen?” Ariella was referring to Doerr losing his son and later his wife.

  “It just happened. It was hard,” said Doerr. “Now tell me about your first kill.”

  Ariella probably understood that Doerr’s losses were really personal to him and he didn’t like to talk to anyone about it.

  “It happened in Beirut. Three years back. I had to take out a senior Hamas leader.”

  Chapter 27 Tehran

  In 1955, the Islamic State had established the Nuclear Research Program – a sleepy organization until 1992 when the nation had decided to reinvigorate it. Chosen by the top leaders, Javed Esfahani, now fifty years old, had been a key person running this program since 1995.

  He’d been the force behind building the nuclear program, getting the funding for it, recruiting the right technicians, and running it.

  If the scientists were the brains of the nuclear program, Javed was its arms. In December 2003, Javed had traveled to Boston to recruit Golshan, who had been teaching at MIT at that time.

  To his surprise, Golshan had agreed to return to his home country after only a few carefully worded sentences from Javed. And there had been no need to show Golshan the list of his relatives living in Iran and what would happen to them if Golshan didn’t agree to come back home.

  Javed had worked to break the bureaucratic walls while Golshan toiled for the scientific breakthroughs, and their hard work had culminated in the completion of th
e nuclear reactors in 2011 and 2012, a byproduct of the real goal – nuclear weapons, that Javed had been unable to deliver till now, but he believed he’d soon have what he wanted.

  Javed’s control over the program had been absolute, till a new president took office in 2013 and appointed a new minister – Navid – to supervise Javed’s work.

  Javed was deeply insulted and demoralized, but he kept his mouth shut and continued to work hard to achieve the ultimate goal. It appeared to Javed, Navid’s main aim was to curtail his power and reduce him to a puppet. But Javed had never bowed in front of Navid, and a power struggle had been brewing for a while. Navid had instructed him to run everything by him before making a decision. But Javed had been showing him the plans right before taking action and only for major matters, and Javed knew Navid resented that.

  JAVED SAT ON the chair in his office room, reading a report on how devastating Golshan’s death would be to the Islamic State’s ambitions. Javed looked at the life-size framed image of the supreme leader, wondering how he would explain the whole fiasco of the chief’s death to his boss, Navid. Israel had tried to eliminate Golshan before, so the threat was well known.

  Javed stood up from his chair and kneeled down to pray. He was upset about the setback to the program, but he was far more worried about his own prospect and future. The only way he could avoid punishment by Navid or the president was by finding Golshan’s replacement fast, very fast.

  IT WAS A busy day for Javed. He had four meetings before the big one at two p.m., with Navid. At 1:45 p.m., Javed closed his office door and started praying, which gave him some energy and confidence that he badly needed.

  Usually, Javed didn’t care much about meetings with ministers, much less with Navid. As per the hierarchy, Javed was to report to Navid, but he never did. He’d always worked with the president, and he’d seen presidents come and go, so he didn’t have much respect for the president either.

  But today was different. Today he prayed to Allah to help him keep his job, and more importantly, keep him alive. It wasn’t uncommon even for a person in high power to lose his job and then his life. Javed himself had ordered three such killings of highly placed officials in the nuclear program, who had been suspected of leaking reports to American and Israeli spies.

  Javed finished praying, stood up, straightened his clothes, and then opened the door. He stepped out of his office and soon started walking down the stairs, accompanied by his two bodyguards. Javed stepped down the stairs furiously. After two staircases, his legs were tired, and he turned his head around for a glance at the black-dressed men, who he distrusted so much that he changed them every three months. He’d been afraid some guards were spying on him for Navid.

  Javed stepped out of his office building and headed for the more modern six-story edifice just two blocks away, where Navid’s office was housed.

  Ten minutes later, Javed was standing in front of Navid’s reception in the fourth-floor office. Javed threw a disdainful look at the male receptionist, who stood up, pointed to the gray leather sofa, and courteously said in Farsi, “Have a seat, please.”

  “I haven’t come here to sit,” Javed growled at the man.

  “Please wait, sir,” the receptionist said. “I’ll get someone.” And then he walked away.

  It had been an established procedure for Javed to come here and the receptionist would just show him the way to Navid’s office.

  Things are already changing, Javed thought as he sat down. His two bodyguards stood next to him. A minute later, the receptionist returned, accompanied by three security men, who gazed at Javed, scanning him visually.

  The guard in the middle of the three men, the only guy with a pistol, looking like the lead, touched his holstered firearm and said, “Come with me, sir.”

  Javed stepped forward; his own two security men, who had been silently watching so far, stepped forward. The lead guard raised his hand, indicating Javed’s men couldn’t accompany him.

  Javed stopped. “Why? They always come in with me,” he barked, trying to control his emotions. If it was any other day, he would’ve screamed in fury.

  “No, sir,” the lead guard said politely. “We’ve been given strict orders. No outside security allowed.”

  “Hmm,” Javed said and started sauntering past the guards, showing restrained anger. He could hear their footsteps right behind him.

  Navid’s office was about twenty feet from where the receptionist was. In between, there were rooms occupied by high-ranking officials. Doors to some of the rooms had nameplates and some didn’t.

  As he walked, a feeling of coldness ran down Javed’s legs.

  Does the minister have some special plan? A plan to remove me from the position. A plan to remove me from the earth itself?

  It was unheard of for someone to be murdered in an office. Sending a killer or framing a case and then executing the faulted man were more likely scenarios.

  Relax, everything will be fine. My life isn’t in danger. I have a personal relationship with the president. No one will dare kill me.

  As Javed walked, his pace slowed, and the lead guard trotted ahead of him, stopped in front of a door, and opened it.

  Javed had never been inside that room. It was large compared to the others. The guard ushered him in, and he sat down on a chair and the guard closed the door on his way out. Alone, he could hear only the hum of the fan pushing air into the room.

  After thirty minutes, when Navid didn’t appear, when he could no longer tolerate the noise from the fan, a thin layer of sweat appeared on Javed’s forehead. Suddenly he felt thirsty. He tried to swallow, but that made his throat even drier. He considered getting out of the room and finding some water, in the end deciding not to do so.

  Fifteen more minutes passed, and after a long and painful wait, Navid finally appeared through a different entrance. Navid was almost as old as Javed but was much thinner than Javed. Even his beard was thin compared to Javed’s, and Javed had always thought that the thin beard should have disqualified the minister from holding public office. The minister wore a white tunic and a gray sweater over it.

  “Sorry.” Navid smiled as he took a seat facing Javed. “I was busy with a different meeting.”

  “No problem,” said Javed with a wry smile, trying to mask his fear, measuring Navid’s mood. He thought Navid was the only man on earth who looked worse than normal when smiling. “How are you?”

  “I am fine,” Navid said cordially. “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “Do you want something to drink? Coffee? Juice? Anything?”

  Javed thought of asking for some cold water but immediately decided not to, fearing it might put a damper on the good mood Navid was exhibiting.

  “I’m fine.” Javed put on the broadest smile he could muster, hoping the meeting would end without any punishment handed to him for Golshan’s death.

  “Good.” The minister straightened up in his chair. “Let’s get to our topic at hand.”

  Javed nodded and Navid continued, “They are yet to find out who killed Golshan. But they will soon. We’re pretty sure it’s either the Israelis or the Americans.”

  “It could be the British,” Javed quipped. “But I agree with you; it’s either the Israeli or the American bastards. British are a distant possibility. They wouldn’t dare. But it could be anyone really.”

  “Anyone?” The minister threw a scornful look at Javed. “But who did it doesn’t really matter that much right now. The first question I have is what types of security did we have for the chief?” Navid looked at some papers he had laid down on the table. His face turned serious and the friendly smile receded from his face. “And how come those security measures were not enough to protect him?” The minister looked up at Javed.

  “Okay.” Javed had been expecting that question, and he was ready with an answer. “We had him under good protection. He had two bodyguards during the evening and four in the daytime. His house was under protection. His fam
ily members were being protected.”

  “If we had so much, then how come he’s dead?”

  Javed leaned back in his chair, trying to give the impression that he was cool and composed, which he wasn’t. “It was partly his mistake too. He was asked to put on body armor at all times, but he often ignored it. If he wore the protection under his turban, he’d be alive today. He often complained about the hot weather and refused to wear anything on his head.”

  “Javed, you’re trying to blame the victim here? Do you refuse to take the blame?”

  “Not trying to blame the victim,” Javed said meekly. “I accept responsibility. All I’m saying is that we did everything we could. Moreover, security was being handled by another man. Not me. Should we fire him? Send him to prison? Or just get rid of him?”

  Ignoring Javed’s insinuation to kill the other man, the minister said, “But that guy reported to you, didn’t he?”

  Javed couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer, and he felt thirsty again.

  Navid said, “We have to keep the program going despite Golshan’s death. Our government will investigate the death and punish the murderer. We’ve got to find a new chief for the program. Now to that end, what have you done so far?”

  Javed swallowed. It had been two days since the chief had been killed, and since then he’d been thinking more about how to maneuver and keep his job than filling the one that had just been vacated. “I have started some conversations. Getting input from experts.”

  “Experts?” The minister raised his voice. “Like who?”

  In the past, if Navid had shouted at him like this, Javed would’ve screamed back like a bear protecting her babies. But now, given the situation, he couldn’t do that. “I’ve spoken to the head of the physics department at Tehran University.” It was a lie, a calculated one. The department’s head was a friend of Javed, but he’d not spoken to the head lately. “I’ve drafted a list of experts, who I’ll be talking to very soon.”

  “Who all are on that list?” the minister said with sarcasm. “May I see the list?”

  “A scientist who is doing research work in Australia. He’s from Iran. And I’ve got a few others on the list who I can’t remember right now.” Even to Javed, it sounded phony.