by Jay Deb
“If you come with me,” Omar continued, “I can guarantee you will be free. You’ll be stable. No one will bother you. You will be truly free.”
“I don’t know,” Janco said. “Like I told you, I feel I’d be happy to be back in the Nevada jail.”
“Why? You love America?”
“To hell with America. I hate them. See what they have done to me. They destroyed my life and took my soul. I want to throw the DA and the judge of my case into a fire pit.”
“Then come with me.”
“I’m not sure,” said Janco. “I feel wherever you take me, it’ll be another prison.”
“Where all have you been to after you left the Nevada jail?”
“I was in Turin, Italy. Almost a month. One guy kept me in a hotel like a prisoner. To this day, I don’t know who the hell he was.”
“Did he treat you well when you were in his hands?”
“It was okay. The guy gave me money to eat. I saved it and starved. Now I have stomach pain all the time. I think I have an ulcer. But I can’t go to a doc. I might be bleeding inside as I speak to you.”
“I’ll take you to a doctor. I’m sure it’s something simple.”
“Will you? Please take me to a doctor.” Janco pointed to his belly. “I feel pain here all the time.”
“I will. Trust me. I’ll take you to a good doctor. For now just don’t eat spicy foods.” Omar was sensing friendliness in Janco’s voice and was sure Janco would listen to him soon. “Tell me the name of the guy who kept you in a hotel in Italy.”
“His name was Roger Gibbs. He said he was an agent from Iran. I didn’t believe him. Still don’t know to this day who that guy was.”
“He was from the CIA, Mr. Janco. The CIA took you out of the jail and put you in Italy.”
“The CIA?” Janco looked flabbergasted. “Who told you?”
“I have many snitches. A few in Washington too.”
“I assume the man who followed me this morning works for you. Right?”
Omar nodded.
“How much do you pay your guys in Washington?”
“It varies based on their position et cetera.”
“All the people in DC are crooks.” Janco sighed. “But why did the CIA pull me out of the slammer and bring me to Europe?”
“I don’t know what their future plan was. I guess they wanted to make you their spy at some point in time. But it doesn’t matter now.”
“It doesn’t.” Janco nodded in agreement.
“Your future is more important now. And again I ask you – do you like your home country?”
“I hate my country. Why do you keep asking?”
“Here is a proposal for you.”
“Go on,” said Janco.
“I can get you asylum in Iran. America, the FBI or CIA – no one can touch you there. You can stay there as long as you want. They will drop some money in your Swiss bank account as well.”
Janco appeared to be thinking.
“You don’t have to worry about anything ever again,” Omar said. “You’re going to have full security. The CIA cannot get to you. The FBI cannot touch you. In return, you will work on the state’s nuclear projects.”
“That sounds too good to believe. In my country, there is a saying if it is too good to–”
“I know,” Omar said. “If it’s too good to believe, then it probably is. Now, are you ready to head for Iran?”
Janco appeared indecisive. “Someone promised me that before. Didn’t happen.”
“Trust me. I’ll keep my promise. I’m powerful. You see that, right?”
“The CIA guys were powerful too.”
“But the CIA was playing games with you. Iran needs you. You know why?”
“Why?”
“The chief of their nuclear program has been murdered by the Israelis. Now they desperately need someone like you. And they will not play games with you because you will be assisting ’em.” Omar looked at Janco, waiting for a clue.
“How do I know everything you told me is true?”
“Well, you will talk to the head of the Iranian program. He will corroborate. So what do you say?”
“I’m not sure.” Janco scratched his head. “Shall I be free there? Do I have to become a Muslim?”
“You’ll be a free man and you don’t have to become a Muslim. In fact, you’d be surprised how many Christians live in Iran. More than ten times the number of Muslims living in this country.” Omar pointed to the ground, meaning he referred to Switzerland.
“Can my son visit me there?” Janco asked.
“Your son or anyone can visit you as long as they’re not spying for the CIA.”
“Can I marry a woman?”
“That’s the good thing, Mr. Janco. You can marry multiple women. You can divorce when you want.” Omar gave him a meaningful smile.
“If I may ask. Who are you?”
“I’m a problem solver. I take care of things for people who can’t do it themselves. And I charge them a small fee.”
“Where do you live?”
“I live in a few places,” Omar said.
“Is Iran one of them?”
Omar shook his head.
“If Iran is such a good place, then why don’t you live there? If you don’t mind.”
“Because of this.” Omar raised his vodka-filled glass. “No alcohol is allowed there.”
“But I heard alcohol is widely tolerated there. It’s like prostitution in Thailand. It’s illegal, but everyone does it anyway.”
“Mr. Janco, let’s just talk about you. You will be happy in Iran.” Omar decided to exert some authority. “Now, listen to me. It’s best for you to get out of this country ASAP.”
“I’ve got to think about it.” Janco scratched his head and then rubbed his belly.
“There is no time. The CIA men are looking for you. You could be caught anytime. I have to make some arrangements and you will be in a free country with plenty of money and women. What’s there to think about?”
“What is it they want? Some help with their operations?”
“Better than that. You’re going to become the chief of their nuclear operations. Hundreds of people reporting to you.”
“They won’t kill me once they’re done with me, will they?”
“They would never do that. They treat a guest like an angel.”
Janco scratched his head and appeared to be mulling it over.
Omar watched Janco for a few seconds, and then he put his hand in his pocket and touched the Sig Sauer gun, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it on Janco to add some pressure.
“So?” Omar looked straight at Janco’s eyes. “I need an answer now. Do you wish to go to Iran now? Or would you like to be left in the street and fend for yourself?”
Janco said nothing.
“Are you coming with me?” Omar demanded an answer. “Yes or no?”
Slowly, Janco nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. I’ll get you a passport and other things.”
“You sound like a man with a long reach.”
“I am.”
“Aren’t authorities looking for you?”
“They are. But I know how to evade them and you don’t. That’s why you need my help.”
Chapter 35 London
It took a few days of reconnaissance before Doerr felt he knew enough about Ibrahim, who, it appeared, shared a flat in Maida Vale with another family. He had two friends living in the same residential complex, and he’d been calling someone in Saudi Arabia every day at least once. It would have helped immensely if Doerr could listen to Ibrahim’s conversations, but the agency couldn’t get authorization from the local officials in a few days, and Doerr could no longer wait. Time was running out, and he had to make his move.
Doerr sat in the restaurant opposite the kebob restaurant where Ibrahim worked. Doerr sipped soda from a cup but focused on listening to the tiny device in his right ear. It was about two p.m. in London. Clouds covered the sky,
and it had been drizzling for hours.
Thirty minutes later, Doerr heard what he had been expecting – ‘the eagle is out,’ meaning Ibrahim had stepped out of his restaurant. Doerr threw a twenty-pound bill on the table and rushed out. Within twenty seconds, he saw Ibrahim ahead of him on the other side of the road, sauntering along the curb, heading for the metro station, unaware of what was about to fall on him. Keeping an eye on Ibrahim, Doerr continued to walk.
He saw Ariella, dressed in a sweatshirt, approaching Ibrahim from behind; her new hairstyle covered her forehead, giving her a new look. Doerr crossed the road slowly to be on the same side as Ibrahim and Ariella.
Ibrahim turned his head and took a quick peek behind him and then continued to step ahead.
Did Ibrahim suspect anything? Doerr wondered, hopefully not. Doerr pulled down his hat, which together with the thick glasses should have made him unrecognizable to Ibrahim.
Doerr rushed. He was now about ten feet behind Ibrahim and Ariella was right behind the man about to be abducted.
It was 2:30 p.m. and the road was relatively empty. There were a man and a woman sauntering ahead of them. Doerr looked behind, and he saw an old man walking toward him with a cane, accompanied by a lady.
Ten seconds later, Doerr stood six feet behind Ibrahim as Ariella put up a wide smile and raised a piece of paper to Ibrahim. “Do you know where this place is?” Ariella handed the piece of paper to Ibrahim. The paper had been soaked in an advanced version of an incapacitating chemical that, when placed near the nose of an adult, would make him nauseated within ten seconds and the man would be unconscious within a minute. An ambiguous address had been written on the paper in cursive, tiny letters.
Ibrahim took the paper and tried to read.
“It’s hard to see.” He brought the piece of paper closer to his eyes.
Ibrahim began sweating and his face became red. Doerr moved in when Ibrahim started falling to the ground. From his pocket, he took out a tiny piece of cloth that had been soaked in the same chemical as the piece of paper. Doerr held it to Ibrahim’s nostrils and Ibrahim fell to the ground, unconscious.
The old man and the woman were now very near Doerr.
“What happened?” the old man asked.
“Don’t know,” said Ariella, pointing to Ibrahim on the ground. “I asked him if he knew an address and he just fell down. Now we have to take him to the hospital.”
“Yeah, take him away,” the old man said scornfully. “These people are all over this neighborhood now.”
Obviously the old man didn’t like the Middle Eastern populace moving into his area. He and the woman continued walking, but three other men and a woman surrounded them, and they were murmuring, expressing astonishment.
Doerr was sure none of them would think a pretty woman like Ariella would have done something to Ibrahim.
Within a minute, a yellow ambulance came and screeched to a halt, its red lights flashing. It was a vehicle owned by the CIA. Everything had been rehearsed the day before. The vehicle’s door opened and two agency men disguised as paramedics descended and helped Doerr and Ariella carry Ibrahim’s body into the van. One of the onlookers lent a hand to transfer Ibrahim into the vehicle, and pointing to Ibrahim, the man said to another man, “He is so lucky. The ambulance came so quickly.”
Doerr saw two men coming out of the kebob restaurant where Ibrahim worked. They might have realized that Ibrahim was in trouble and were coming to investigate. Sitting next to Ibrahim inside the ambulance, Doerr slammed the vehicle’s door closed, and the ambulance started moving.
Things were happening at a brisk pace. It had been barely two minutes since Ariella had showed the piece of paper to Ibrahim.
Doerr said to Ariella, “Thanks for all your help. Having a woman accomplice really helps.”
“I know.” Ariella nodded. “No one thinks a beautiful woman can bring a man down.”
A HALF HOUR later, Ibrahim was trying to sit up, half-conscious and watched by Doerr.
“Stay there,” Doerr commanded.
“What’s this?” Ibrahim said in a broken voice. “Where am I?” And he tried to sit up again.
Doerr took the chemical-soaked cloth out of his pocket and pressed it against Ibrahim’s nostrils.
“Is he out now?” one of the agency men asked. The ambulance was moving slowly, at about thirty kilometers an hour. The traffic was getting busier as rush hour was approaching.
“Almost,” said Doerr. “How long to the safe house?”
“Another forty minutes to an hour.”
IBRAHIM WAS TAKEN to the safe house and given an antidote for the chemical he’d inhaled. Within an hour, he looked healthy; he was breathing normally and his eyes were wide open. He was given a chicken sandwich and a bottle of water. After consuming them, Ibrahim appeared to be composed and energized.
Ibrahim was resting on a sofa. Doerr and Ariella sat down facing him. It was a well-lit room in the safe house, with a world map and a US flag hanging from the walls.
“Remember me?” Doerr asked.
“Have I seen you before?” Ibrahim picked up the bottle of water and took a sip.
“Look at me,” Doerr said angrily. “Don’t act. We talked before. And now we need to learn something about Omar. You tell us and you leave. You can even make a good amount of money.”
“Who is Omar?” Ibrahim said.
Doerr said, “I appreciate the help you provided me in Saudi Arabia. But–”
“Obviously you have the wrong man. I never met you and I’ve never even been to Saudi Arabia. I’m from Jordan. I’m just trying to make some money in London. Jobs are hard to find in Jordan, you know.”
Doerr had met many types of men in his life. But even he was surprised by Ibrahim’s acting talent.
“This guy should be in Hollywood,” Doerr said to Ariella sarcastically.
“You should be in Hollywood,” Ibrahim said to Ariella. “What was in that piece of paper you gave me?”
Ignoring the question, Ariella said angrily, “I know how to make guys like you talk.”
“Come on, Ibrahim,” Doerr said. “Tell us where Omar is and you get a hundred thousand dollars. Right now.”
Ibrahim thought for two seconds. “Oh, Omar.” He smiled. “Last time I heard, he’s in America.”
“America?” Ariella looked surprised.
“Yes. I’m talking about Omar, my old high school buddy. Who are you talking about?”
Doerr realized Ibrahim wasn’t going to divulge anything, and he was making fun of them.
Ariella appeared furious.
She stood up. “Stop your fucking acting.” She threw a forceful punch into Ibrahim’s face and blood appeared on his lips. Ariella was about to deliver another jab into Ibrahim’s bloody face, but Doerr restrained her. “Ariella! That’s not the way.”
Ariella sat down.
“We have to give him the treatment,” said Doerr.
THE ROOM WAS dark except for the middle area, which was illuminated by a forty-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling. The two window drapes had been pulled down and the door was closed. Ibrahim’s hands were cuffed behind the metal chair he was sitting on.
He’d been given a shot of adrenalin and LSD an hour back. This was what Doerr had referred to as the treatment. Doerr didn’t believe in torture, but he thought the rules could be bent a little in urgent circumstances.
Doerr measured Ibrahim’s pulse – 125, an effect of the chemicals injected into his body. Ibrahim must be feeling terrible, thought Doerr – time for him to tell the truth.
He unlocked Ibrahim’s cuff and stood in front of him.
“How you feeling?” Doerr asked softly.
Ibrahim’s hazy eyes were an indication that he wasn’t feeling good, but he tried to keep them open. He was sweaty and appeared confused.
“Look at me closer.” Doerr lowered his face and saw a flicker in Ibrahim’s eyes.
“You?” Ibrahim said. Today he recognized Doerr; the day be
fore he had not.
“Yes. Me.” Doerr stood up and asked sarcastically, “How is your brother?”
Ibrahim said nothing.
“Now tell me your story,” said Doerr. “The real story.”
“I have no story.” Ibrahim’s voice was feeble but resolute. “I’m not saying anything.”
“What is your real name?” Doerr threw a menacing stare at Ibrahim.
“Ibrahim. Just like I told you.”
“Then who is Salauddin?”
Ibrahim hesitated for a few seconds. “Salauddin is the name I used to get a job at the kabob restaurant.”
“What are you doing in London?”
“You must’ve seen. I work at the restaurant.”
“What is your real job in London?” Doerr was sure that Ibrahim was in London as part of a more ominous plan than to cook food at the restaurant for money. The restaurant job was just a cover.
“I work at a restaurant.”
Ibrahim’s defiance made Doerr angry, and he grabbed Ibrahim by his hair. “Stop playing games now. Enough! Where is Omar? Where?”
“Who?”
“Omar. Don’t pretend to be innocent.” Doerr shook Ibrahim’s head vigorously. “Tell me where he is!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The door opened and Ariella walked in, a rubber band in her hand. “How is it going?”
“Not much better than yesterday.” Doerr sighed and let go of Ibrahim’s hair. “According to him, he’s just a regular Joe working in a restaurant and has no clue who Omar is.”
“Oh yeah.” Ariella stood behind Ibrahim and put a choke hold around his neck. “Who sent you here? Are you going to say it, or do we have to chop off fingers one by one?”
Ibrahim gasped and appeared to be struggling for air.
“Go slow,” Doerr said. “He’s loaded.”
“He’s just acting,” Ariella said, releasing Ibrahim’s neck. She pulled out a clip-like device and put it on Ibrahim’s index finger and then read the numbers on the LCD display. “Told you. His oxygen level is ninety-eight percent. See, he’s faking.”