by Jay Deb
Javed’s facial expression changed, and he looked disappointed.
“How come you’re so fussy about the money?” Omar asked. “Doesn’t your country have billions of dollars from oil?”
“She does, but I don’t,” Javed said. “See, Omar, I have to get Janco in Iran on my own because I’ve promised someone something. And I.” Javed pointed his index finger to his chest. “Never break a promise. Once I deliver Janco to our leaders, I’ll be able to do you more favors. But for now I can’t pay more than two million.”
“But that’s less than my cost. There is no way I can do this for two mil.” Omar stood up, ready to end the meeting. “Six. No less.”
“Is that final? Think about it one more time, Omar. Three million dollars is my last offer, Omar. I can get this done by someone else. I have many options.”
Then why are you here? Omar thought. He raised his glass and finished his drink. “The expenses are too much. Otherwise, I’d have done it for less.”
“Think one more time, Omar. You got a chance to serve your country. The greatest country in the world, run by the noblest leader who ever lived.”
Omar gave Javed a yeah, yeah, whatever look.
“Our supreme leader is the best in the entire world. He cared for the people for twenty-five years with one hand cut off. Remember Pope Benedict, who resigned after less than eight years. He was in good health. He was a coward; that’s why he resigned. And look at our leader. He continues to serve his disciples despite his poor health. Because he is the supreme leader. He is the supreme person in our lives.” Javed rose from his chair, ready to leave. “What do you say, Omar. We work together for the country. You make a little bit of money now and more later.”
Omar pretended to listen, filled his glass with raw vodka, and took a sip.
Javed took two steps toward the entrance. “Think of the brothers in al-Qaeda and Hamas. They give their lives without thinking. Thanklessly. And you…”
Omar had been listening to Javed so far with a fake respect. He did not want to irk Javed. After all, he was a powerful man in a big country. Someday his favor might be useful. But now Javed was crossing the limits. Omar knew the difference between himself and the terrorists. He was no imbecile. He knew terrorists duped young men to commit murder; they knew how to find people who had no reason to live; terrorists gave them a reason to live and then they took their lives away. Omar gave his men money to do the work and kept most of them alive so they would do his next job, assuring Omar a steady stream of money.
“I run my organization like a business.” Omar set his glass down on the table, ready to see Javed out. “You pay, I give service. No pay, no service.”
Javed opened the door and put one leg out. “Remember you have relatives back there. They will be very disappointed.”
Anger was creeping into Omar’s brain. “Don’t threaten me. If you give me some money, I’ll go and kill my relatives myself. I don’t care about them. That’s why I left your country in the first place!”
Javed shook his head and started marching down the red-carpeted hallway.
Omar took a peek out and saw Javed walking away. Omar shook his head and then banged his door shut.
Omar poured a big shot of vodka into his glass and then settled down in front of the large flat-screen TV, where an ice hockey game was being shown. He munched some potato chips and drank at the same time. It was eleven in the morning, and the day had been unproductive so far. Waste of time, he thought.
Omar started packing his stuff. Soon, he’d be leaving Moscow. He went downstairs to the fine restaurant and ordered a sumptuous meal of fresh salmon and expensive French wine.
An hour later, Omar was waiting to board a plane at the airport that would soon take him back to Italy, to his girlfriend of the last six months.
JAVED WALKED OUT of the hotel and sat down in the backseat of the cab. As the cab moved down the highway, he felt thirsty and hungry. His ears had been ringing from the noise of the long travel in the jet.
All of the speech he’d rehearsed during his flight to Moscow, to be delivered to Omar, went in vain; even the threat to hurt Omar’s relatives had not worked. He had no idea where Omar’s relatives were, but he was sure he’d find them should the need arise.
Javed had four and a half million dollars stashed in a foreign bank, the rest of the money he’d plundered from the government had been used to buy some real estate, jewelry for his and his sons’ wives, and some stakes in Iranian companies where his sons had been riding the gravy train.
It was clear to Javed that he’d have to agree to the six-million-dollar fee that Omar had demanded. He decided that he would transfer three million dollars to Omar, and when Omar brought Janco to Tehran, then he’d see what could be done.
Once Omar comes to Tehran, I’ll show him who is the boss, thought Javed and looked outside through the cab’s window.
THE AIRLINE ANNOUNCED that business-class passengers could board now. Omar rose from the blue sofa in the waiting area and headed for the door where officials were checking the passengers’ boarding passes. Omar stood in the line to board the plane, ten or twelve fellow passengers ahead of him.
The officials checked in a few passengers and just four more remained ahead of Omar, and then he felt the buzz of his smartphone vibrating in the left pocket of his pants.
“Hello,” Omar whispered into the phone.
“Five million,” the voice at the other end said.
Omar knew it was Javed. “I told you before,” he barked as he walked away from the line toward a corner. “Six mil. No less. Now I have a plane to catch. Goodbye.”
“Wait, wait,” Javed said desperately. “You win. Six million. You are a tough guy.”
“Okay.” Omar had a hunch that Javed would come around sooner or later. “Send me half the payment before I can start working.”
“I’ll send the three million dollars in a week. But let the work start today. We don’t have much time.”
“I need the fucking money first. Work will start after I receive the three mil. The rest will be due right before I deliver Janco. Call me when you have the money.”
“I have the money right now. But I got to make a few calls to transfer it. You should get it tomorrow in your bank. Just make sure the job gets done. My future depends on it. Your country’s future depends on it.”
“I never failed to deliver. No miss. So don’t worry.”
“That’s why I came to you,” Javed said and laughed. “Now give me your bank details.”
“I’ll send you one email with the bank name,” Omar whispered. “And a second mail will come with the account number. Call me after sending the money.”
“One more question.”
“Hurry. I have a plane to catch.”
“When do we discuss logistics?”
“I don’t discuss logistics with clients. In my experience, it only leads to trouble. I’ll deliver Janco somewhere inside your country. Now, I got to go. Call me once you have wired the money. Bye.”
“Just one last question. You will come to Tehran to deliver Janco, right?”
“Yeah, I’ll come to Tehran. Goodbye.”
Omar hung up and proceeded to board the plane. Come to Tehran, my ass, thought Omar.
Chapter 29 Zurich
Eventually, Janco got bored with the Thai woman. She had been nice and did most things he’d asked for on the bed. Yet he felt he wasn’t getting his money’s worth.
Janco picked up the phone and dialed the escort service’s number. Price was discussed and the arrangement was made.
At seven p.m., a thirty-something woman knocked on his door and Janco let her in.
As the whore dressed in red walked in, Janco smelled a lavender fragrance. Unlike the Thai girl, she had large bosoms, her hair red.
“How’s traffic?” Janco asked.
“Traffic bad,” the woman said and soon took her top off, exposing the white padded bra.
“You took a bus or c
ab?”
“What?”
“Bus or cab?” Janco asked.
“Cab,” said the woman, topless now.
Janco wondered if the woman had understood the question. “How long have you been doing this?”
The woman just shook her head as she climbed into the bed, not interested in small talk. Janco let out a sigh and started unbuttoning his shirt.
Minutes later, Janco was lying next to the woman, both naked.
“Okay,” the woman said, indicating that Janco should get started with his business.
Janco put his hand around the woman and grabbed her.
She has more meat on her body than the Thai girl, thought Janco. Soon he was on top of her.
Several minutes later, he was done, and the woman started putting on her clothes.
“Where you from?” she asked mechanically.
“Italy,” Janco said, thinking of his Italian passport.
“You not sound like Italian. Your name?”
“Gustavo.” The name on Janco’s fake Italian passport.
The woman peeked inside her purse, looked for something, and then she stared at Janco’s face.
Janco felt nervous. What is she doing?
The woman was fully clothed now.
She once again looked inside her purse and then quickly headed for the door.
Janco took out a twenty-euro bill to give her as a tip. He had already paid her the fee. But she left.
Could she be a cop? Janco wondered.
A cop selling her body? Not possible. Not.
Chapter 30 Paris
DOERR AND ARIELLA spent weeks traveling to the United Kingdom, Netherlands, Germany, and Switzerland, meeting people in various positions – CIA station chiefs, the intelligence heads of the respective countries, police, and Interpol. Yet no lead emerged. Doerr started wondering if the folks at the agency had been right – that Janco had died.
Doerr and Ariella returned to Paris and then there was a lead, a faint hope. A name surfaced from the CIA’s mammoth network of listening devices – Omar.
Doerr knew who Omar was – the head of an international crime conglomerate. He had killed two thugs working for Omar, one in the UK and the other in Lebanon, a few years earlier, when Omar’s empire wasn’t as big as it was today.
The agency never wanted to eliminate Omar. “He’s not a terrorist,” his boss had told him.
Currently, no one knew where to find Omar, so Doerr and Ariella focused on locating him. While Ariella was following another lead, Doerr met with the crime reporter Parvez in a private booth at a downtown Paris restaurant.
“Good to see you,” Parvez greeted Doerr at the restaurant’s front, where the wall was burgundy painted and a few tables and chairs had been placed outside.
“Any exciting story you’re writing today?” Doerr smiled at him.
“Not much today,” Parvez said. “There was a double murder that took place in Versailles. And a robbery downtown in open daylight. What do you want to talk about today?”
“Do I always come by for a purpose?”
“You never met me casually.”
Doerr chuckled in agreement. Doerr and Parvez were ushered into a private booth and they continued their talk.
“You remember the scientist I mentioned?” Doerr asked.
“Yes. I spoke to a few people. No one knows anything. Have you guys found him?”
“Not yet. But we found a clue.”
Parvez looked at Doerr curiously.
“NSA has intercepted a call made by Omar,” Doerr said.
“Omar. I heard about him. Very elusive and cunning man. What did he say?”
“I don’t have all the details. But I’ve just been told that Omar called someone and was talking about catching a man, who he referred to as the man.”
“The man?”
“Yes. And our agency believes that the man could be our scientist.”
“What did he say in the phone call? And who did he call?”
“We don’t know who was at the other end and we don’t have a full text of the call. He talked in a Farsi dialect called old Tehrani, which no one in our agency can speak. We are trying to hire someone who does.”
“Are you wondering if I speak old Tehrani dialect?”
“No. I’m wondering if you can lead me to someone who knows where Omar could be.”
Parvez thought for a few seconds. “I can’t think of anyone.”
“Please try. Maybe ask a few of your friends. See if you can find someone. It would be a big help.”
Parvez nodded. He knew a lot of bad guys. Being a crime reporter, it was his duty to find them and interview them. “I’ll try. Give me a few days. But there is no guarantee.”
“I understand,” said Doerr. “There is no guarantee in anything.”
THREE DAYS LATER, Doerr received a call from Parvez.
“I got a name but not sure if he can help you on Omar,” Parvez said. “But there’s a possibility. You’ll have to quiz him.”
“What’s the name?”
“Salauddin.”
“Does Salauddin have a last name?”
“He probably does. But I don’t know it. He works at a kabob restaurant in London.”
“Do you have the address?”
“Yes.” Parvez gave him the address and Doerr committed it to his memory.
Chapter 31 London
Doerr and Ariella took a flight to London the same day. By the time they were out of the terminal, it was eleven p.m. The temperature was cool but not cold enough to warrant warm clothes. Because of the timing, they got one black taxi quickly upon reaching the taxi stand.
“Good evening,” the cabbie, an elderly man, said.
Doerr gave him the address of the kabob restaurant. Ariella and Doerr settled down in the rear seat, and the cab started moving.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to go there now?” Ariella asked.
“This is the best time to visit the place,” Doerr said in a low voice. “There should be no one there. We might even be lucky and be able to slide a bug under the gate.”
“What if they installed a surveillance camera and pick up a picture of you?”
“That’s why I’m wearing this.” Doerr pointed to his hat.
“They’ll still have a picture of you.”
“Rather than going through the tape and looking for a glimpse of me, I think the kabob restaurant people have better things to do – like make kabobs. Just imagine yourself as the owner of a small restaurant. You’ve got a million things to do.”
Ariella nodded.
Forty minutes later, the cab was approaching the restaurant.
It was a tiny place on the ground floor of a four-story building, probably a pickup place for Middle Eastern food. Written on its glass door were the restaurant’s name and its phone number, which Doerr noted down. The gate was shut, and there was no space between the edge of the door and the floor to insert a listening device.
Opposite the kabob restaurant, there was a more formal and larger restaurant.
“Know any good hotel nearby?” Doerr asked the cabbie.
“There’s a Hilton hotel nearby,” the cabbie said. “But it’s expensive. Three hundred pounds per night.”
“Let’s go there,” said Ariella.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Ariella and Doerr went to the restaurant opposite the kabob place. Doerr requested a window-side table so that he could have a clear view of the kabob restaurant.
They ordered a breakfast of French toast, scrambled eggs, and coffee.
It was nine a.m., and Doerr kept an eye on the kabob restaurant, and in twenty minutes he saw only one customer go in. It wasn’t a busy restaurant, or maybe it wasn’t a popular place for breakfast, and most folks came in at a later time. Doerr wondered if Salauddin was already in the restaurant or if he came in later when more customers dropped by.
Food was delivered to Doerr’s table. He took a bite of his toast and a few sips from his coffee mug
. Doerr stood up and walked out of the restaurant for privacy and dialed the kabob restaurant’s number.
“Hello, Khan Kabob,” a male voice answered. “May I take your order?”
“Can I talk to Salauddin?” Doerr asked.
“Salauddin not in yet.”
“Can you ask him to call me as soon as he gets in? It’s urgent.”
“Your number?”
Doerr gave his number and then hung up.
He anxiously waited for Salauddin’s call through the morning and the afternoon. The call came at eight thirty in the evening, when Doerr was in his tenth floor hotel room, from where he could see the top of the London Eye, which, he knew, had been built in 1998 at a cost of about a hundred million dollars and opened to the public in 2000.
“This is Salauddin.” The voice sounded familiar to Doerr. “Someone asked me to call back this number.”
“Yes,” Doerr said. “I need someone to deliver a package to a man. He’s now in the Ritz-Carlton hotel downtown.”
In the underground world, transporting packages was a big business. A fee of thousands of dollars for conveying a one-pound package wasn’t unheard of. Private delivery men provided the stealth preferred by both the receiver and the sender.
“What’s in the packet?” Salauddin asked, his English pretty good.
“It’s a letter. You have to deliver it to a Saudi businessman there named Bin Hafeez and say to him ‘It’s the last one’ and then just walk away.”
Salauddin didn’t say anything for a few seconds, seeming to mull it over. “How much is the pay?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“US dollars?”
“Yes.”
Again a pause and then Salauddin said, “Okay. When do I have to do it?”
“Tomorrow. By four o’clock. I’ll give you the package and the money at noon. Meet me in front of Buckingham Palace. I’ll be wearing a black T-shirt with the word Paris written on it in thick white block letters. Can’t miss.”
“Can I meet you at two?”
“Sure.” Doerr understood that Salauddin didn’t want to miss his restaurant work during the lunch hour. “How do I recognize you?”