The Scientist (Max Doerr Book 2)

by Jay Deb

  Ibrahim sat up straight. His face muscles tightened and his eyes became sharp.

  “Enough is enough.” Doerr pulled out a Smith and Wesson from his pocket and pressed its barrel against Ibrahim’s forehead. “You want to die here or go back to Saudi Arabia.”

  “I will cut off your tongue and put it back in your mouth.” Ariella pulled a knife out of her pocket. “Do you know how that feels?”

  Unfazed, Ibrahim said, “You can’t torture me. Your president ordered.”

  “See,” Ariella said to Doerr, “these guys know more American laws than the Americans.”

  She took the gun from Doerr’s hand and smacked it on Ibrahim’s face.

  Bloodied, Ibrahim cried, “You can’t do this.”

  “Yes, I can.” Pointing to Doerr, Ariella said, “He is American. I’m not.” Ariella grabbed Ibrahim’s head by his long hair and shook it. “You want to talk now, buddy? You wish to make a deal?”

  Ibrahim shook his head.

  “Cool down, Dinah,” Doerr said. “Eventually he’ll speak. They always do.”

  “No. I think this guy is different.” Ariella pulled out a thick rubber band, put it around Ibrahim’s left bicep muscle, pulled out a syringe, and then delivered a shot into Ibrahim’s vein. The whole thing took barely five seconds.

  “What did you give him?” Doerr was alarmed. “He was already loaded. What did you just give him?”

  “Relax. I just gave him some truth potion.” Ariella was calm. “He’ll sleep for an hour. And when he wakes up, he will talk like a saint. No lies.”

  Ibrahim closed his eyes and was falling into sleep.

  “Did you give him sodium pentothal?” Doerr asked.

  “Yes, that was one of the ingredients.”

  “Come on, Ariella. You’re going to get me fired.”

  Ariella laughed. “Yeah. They’re going to fire you.”

  “Okay. Maybe they won’t get rid of me, but I may have a lot of explaining to do later. There’s so much politics going on around torture. Some pols in DC would make you believe that the men and women in the CIA are the real enemies of America. Not the terrorists.”

  Ibrahim went into a deep sleep.

  “See. That’s why I didn’t even discuss it with you. You can just blame the whole thing on me. Your agency can’t fire me.”

  “I was more concerned about ethics.” Doerr pointed to Ibrahim. “And what if this guy dies from an overdose?”

  “He’ll be fine. Trust me. We know these guys. We live next to them.”

  “But we really should have discussed this before putting the needle into him.”

  “We always did the dirty work for your agency, Max. If something happens, we’ll take the blame. I’ll cover your back.”

  A flash went through Doerr’s mind. He remembered how Stonewall had frequently complained about meetings with Senate Intelligence Committee. “Did Stonewall send you to push the limits like this?” Doerr asked. “So that when a protocol breach happens, she can just blame you and your agency.”

  “I did have a chat with Stonewall over the phone. But I don’t remember everything now.”

  “Did she ask you to push the limits?” Doerr stood in front of her. “Yes or no?”

  “I think we both know the answer. Some things are just never spoken. Now, why don’t we go get lunch?” Ariella pointed at Ibrahim, who was snoring now. “By the time we come back, that bastard will be awake.”

  AFTER A LIGHT lunch at a nearby McDonald’s, Doerr and Ariella returned to the interrogation room. Ibrahim was sitting in the chair, half awake, hands cuffed. It was brighter in the room now; two more bulbs had been turned on.

  Ariella stood in front of Ibrahim. “Can you hear me, tough guy?”

  Ibrahim nodded, his lips swollen, his orange shirt drenched in blood.

  “Do you work for Omar?” Ariella asked.

  Ibrahim nodded.

  “See,” Ariella said to Doerr. “He’s now a saint.”

  Doerr removed Ibrahim’s cuffs, handed him a towel, and Ibrahim took it and used it to wipe his face clean.

  “Let’s start from the beginning,” Doerr said. “Did Rafan really kill my wife?”

  “If I tell you everything, you let me go?”

  “Yes,” Doerr said.

  “And pay me a hundred thousand dollars?”

  “Yes,” Doerr lied. He knew Ibrahim would be either taken to the USA for further questioning or handed over to the Saudi Arabian authorities, where Ibrahim would likely be incarcerated for years, maybe even for life.

  “Now tell me. Did Rafan really kill my wife?”

  “No,” Ibrahim said.

  “Omar killed his wife.” Ariella grabbed Ibrahim’s head. “Didn’t he?”

  Ibrahim nodded.

  “Now tell me the whole story.” Doerr stood in front of Ibrahim. “The real story. Now!”

  “I’ll tell you everything,” Ibrahim said. “Can I have some water first?”

  “Answer first; then you get water,” Ariella said.

  “Wait.” Doerr went out of the room to get a bottle of water. When he returned, he gave the bottle to Ibrahim.

  Ibrahim drank all the water in the bottle and then said, “My heart is beating like hell. Can you do something about that?”

  Doerr knew that the administered LSD and adrenalin was the cause of Ibrahim’s increased pulse. Doerr made a head gesture to Ariella. She left the room and, within minutes, returned with a syringe in hand. It was just water. Sometimes people felt better with just placebos.

  “I’ll give you this and you’ll start feeling better,” Ariella said to Ibrahim. “Meanwhile you can keep talking.”

  Doerr sat down on a chair facing Ibrahim. “You can start by telling me what the deal with that Rafan was. The man you had me kill.”

  Ibrahim grimaced as Ariella inserted the needle into his arm and pushed the plunger.

  Ibrahim took a deep breath. “Rafan didn’t kill your wife. Omar did.”

  “Go on,” said Doerr.

  “Omar wanted to kill Rafan.” Ibrahim’s voice was still groggy.

  “Why?” Doerr asked.

  “That’s another story. Rafan used to work for Omar. Two years back. Then he left and good man Omar didn’t mind. But when Rafan started taking Omar’s business, Omar had to do something.”

  “First tell me why Omar killed my wife.”

  “You killed his men. And he never forgets.”

  Ariella and Doerr exchanged looks.

  “How many did he kill?” Ariella asked, pointing to Doerr.

  “I don’t know, four, maybe five. He did other things to Omar too.”

  Doerr interrupted. “If Omar needed to kill Rafan, then why didn’t Omar just kill him? He’s a master of the art of murdering.”

  “He is.” Ibrahim took a deep breath. “But he’s a master planner too. He knew you’d someday come after him. So he planted the information that Rafan was your wife’s killer. This way Omar was in the clear. You killed Rafan and that’s what Omar wanted you to do. After killing Rafan, you must’ve felt you took revenge, and that’s what Omar wanted you to sense. See how good a planner he is.” Ibrahim smiled for the first time.

  Doerr’s head was filled with rage, but he maintained a calm demeanor. “Now, how did Omar plant the misinformation?” Doerr asked, thinking Omar must have paid two or three informers to tell the CIA that Rafan was the killer. “How many guys did he pay?”

  “Just one.”

  “Just one? Who?”

  “Tim Oxley.”

  “Tim Oxley?” Doerr was flabbergasted. Tim Oxley was a rising star in the CIA, trusted by the agency’s top brass, including Stonewall. “You’re lying again, Ibrahim,” Doerr screamed.

  “Oxley. Yes. Tim Oxley,” Ibrahim said. “He works for Omar. Omar pays him forty thousand dollars a month. You Americans are all fools. Oxley had informed Omar that you and your wife will be in that car in Rome that day.”

  Doerr felt dizzy. Yes, the agency sometimes
did things that he didn’t like. But this wasn’t only unbelievable but unfathomable – Oxley a double agent. But then Ibrahim could be making up the whole thing and taking him for a ride also.

  “Looks like this Omar is really quite a player,” Ariella said.

  Doerr ignored Ariella and said to Ibrahim, “Tell me where Omar is now.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Doerr jabbed into Ibrahim’s face. Something told Doerr Ibrahim had some idea about Omar’s whereabouts.

  “Your enemy is Oxley,” said Ibrahim. “Not me. Go hit him.”

  Doerr hit Ibrahim’s face again. “Tell me where Omar is.”

  Ariella, who had been listening silently, wrapped her hand around Ibrahim’s throat, choking him. “Where is your boss?”

  “No,” said Ibrahim, trying to push away Ariella’s hand, but he was unsuccessful.

  Ariella loosened her choke hold.

  “I don’t know where Omar is,” said Ibrahim.

  Ariella raised her hand to strike Ibrahim.

  Leaning backward to avoid the beating, Ibrahim said, “I have no idea where Omar is. But I know he has already captured Janco.”

  ARIELLA STOOD UNDER the shower in her hotel room, naked. Cold water enveloped her body like a silk satin on a soft bed. She had been working with Doerr for about a month now. When she had been informed that she’d work with Doerr on the scientist, her feeling had been that of exultation. She had heard so much about Doerr and his achievements and expertise on espionage. She had all the skills an agent required. She had thought she could learn a thing or two from Doerr about how to keep nerves under control. That was an area she needed to improve.

  But when she had read about the tragedies in Doerr’s life, how he’d lost his wife in a terrorist attack, her feelings had turned into sympathy.

  Since she had started working with Doerr, she had been feeling a strange attraction toward the man, a feeling she had never experienced before. She wondered what those bulky muscles looked like under the shirt. Were they sweaty? Dry? Soft? Or were they always hard?

  She closed her eyes and turned the shower knob, and the water jets started hitting her at greater speed.

  She positioned her head so that the water fell directly on her hair, and she closed her eyes. Doerr’s face appeared in her mind. She wondered what Doerr was doing right at that moment. Reading some material sent by the CIA? Perhaps reading something casual or maybe out with someone on business or for fun.

  She tilted backward and let the water jets hit her face, then neck, then her chest and further down.

  Chapter 36 Ankara, Turkey

  Using a fake British passport, Omar brought Janco to Ankara. The flight took a little more than eight hours including the two-hour layover at Munich. For Janco, it was a comfortable trip, even with his disguise of a long beard, making him look like a religious Muslim man. But he started sweating from tension, and his heart beat like a turbo engine when their plane reached Ankara. It was night, and cold air brushed his face as Janco walked down the stairs, exiting the aircraft.

  He let out a sigh of relief when the immigration official handed his passport back after stamping it. The relief was quickly replaced by chagrin when Omar snatched Janco’s passport and put it in his pocket. Janco remembered how Gibbs, the CIA man, had done the same in Italy.

  Omar and Janco left the airport and headed for the taxi stand. Janco saw the temperature displayed on an electronic board – two degrees Centigrade. He was pleasantly surprised to see everything around was written in the English alphabet.

  Two hours later, the cabbie dropped Janco and Omar at a hotel on the outskirts of Ankara. Omar told Janco the six-story-tall four-star hotel was owned by a friend of his business partner in Turkey.

  Once in his fifth-floor room, Janco sat on a chair near the balcony, from where he watched the distant lamps and heard the shrill cricket noise.

  THREE DAYS PASSED, and Janco did nothing other than order room service and enjoy the view of the city. He was in a room with two beds, a medium-sized flat-screen TV and a large window. Janco could watch TV, but Omar had dictated that the volume be always muted.

  Janco noticed that Omar hardly slept and drank vodka all day like a suckling baby. Omar was logged in his laptop the whole day, and the only time he had stepped out of the room was when he needed to talk on his cell phone. Obviously Omar was keeping an eye on Janco.

  Mentally, Janco compared his current situation with his stay with Gibbs in the Turin hotel. Here Janco had less freedom; Omar lived in the same room and ordered any food he wanted, without even asking about Janco’s preference. Janco hated the Middle Eastern food that was being delivered. He hoped this stay was the last leg leading to his freedom.

  Bored with sitting and watching for an hour, Janco did some push-ups. The exercise was something he had learned during his incarceration; the exercises relieved tension, got his mind off the problem at hand and kept his body in good shape. Feeling fresh, strong, and hopeful of his future, Janco headed for a quick bath.

  Later, Janco stood in front of the balcony and again looked through the glass into the vastness of the city against the sunset. This was the best time of the day for him, and the sunset was the only thing he was fond of in Turkey. Though he liked Omar, with the passage of time a ball of doubt about Omar started growing in his heart. He began wondering whether Omar, like Gibbs, had concocted an Iranian story.

  He heard the door opening and saw Omar returning from outside, apparently after finishing his phone call, a blazing cigarette smoldering between his lips.

  Janco glanced at the clock – 7:10 p.m. Hungry again, he took a side glance at Omar, trying to understand his mood. He liked Omar. So far he’d kept his promises; he’d arranged for Janco’s passport and possibly had saved him from incarceration. Omar had even taken him to a doctor in Zurich for his stomach pain. The pain had been gone after taking the medicine the doctor had prescribed, but now only a few pills were left and he wasn’t sure if Omar would go through the entire trouble of seeing a doctor and getting the drug again.

  The only thing that started casting doubt in Janco’s mind was the wait. Why was Omar waiting and not heading to Tehran?

  “Want to order food?” Omar asked.

  “Yes. Yes,” Janco said. “Can I get a burger? A cheeseburger would be nice.”

  “I thought you didn’t like the burger they brought you yesterday.”

  “I didn’t because it was bad. But maybe it will be good today.” Janco smiled. “Maybe they have a different chef.”

  “Unlikely,” Omar said, took a deep drag on his cigarette and then sipped from the glass filled with vodka. “I am ordering a goat biryani. You’ll eat the same?”

  “I don’t like rice,” said Janco. “I don’t like the texture. Can you order a pizza for me?”

  “Okay. But starting tomorrow try something local. Get used to the food.”

  “Okay, I will,” Janco said. He understood that Omar was preparing him for his life in the Islamic State.

  Omar picked up the hotel intercom phone and ordered two plates of goat biryani. Once done, he lit a new cigarette from the old one and continued smoking.

  “I have a question,” Janco said carefully.

  “Yes.” Omar sat down on the sofa and leaned against a pillow.

  “Why are we waiting here in Ankara?” Janco stood in the middle of the room, afraid to sit down till Omar asked him to.

  “They’re trying to finish the immigration work for you. It might take a few more days. But don’t you worry. Coast is sunny. Roads clear. You’ll be in Iran soon, very soon. You’ll help them achieve whatever it is they want. Sit down, please.”

  Janco had conversed with Javed once over a phone, when he had been in Zurich, but Javed had not talked about any immigration paperwork. Moreover, Javed had mentioned that he’d like to have Janco start working immediately, and it had seemed everything was in order at Javed’s end. Mistrust was growing in Janco’s mind. Just like his previous capto
r, Omar was also hiding something. Janco just didn’t know what.

  “Is it right to stay in Ankara?” Janco asked tepidly as he sat down on his bed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this hotel must be one of the most popular hotels in Ankara. Right? If the CIA or the FBI have their men in the city, they might recognize me.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Janco.” Omar took a drag from his cigarette. “Around here, hotels care a lot about customers’ privacy. Also people here don’t trust the police. If someone comes looking for you, then the hotel first informs you so you can get away. This way they got the customer out, and the police will be off their back. And even if the CIA or FBI shows up here, I have a contingency plan. So don’t worry.”

  “I might be wrong. But somehow I don’t feel safe here. I feel someone will get me and take me back to the darn jail in Nevada.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve never failed in my mission. So everything is going to be fine. Enjoy your time. I think you will become very busy once you start working in Tehran.”

  There was a knock on the door. Omar stood up and opened the door. It was the concierge, a thin young man in a white dress; he pushed the food cart inside the room and laid the food on the only table the room had. Omar paid with cash and gave a hefty tip.

  The concierge left with a smiley face.

  Soon, Janco and Omar were eating their goat biryani, Janco at the table and Omar on his bed.

  The food was fresh and aromatic. Janco put the rice aside and placed a piece of goat meat inside his mouth. It was soft and chewy. He liked it and put another piece of meat in his mouth and then some rice.

  He wanted to talk to Javed and verify what Omar was telling him was true. But he knew that wasn’t possible. Without Omar’s permission, he couldn’t talk to Javed. Janco thought of asking Omar a question, but he decided to wait as Omar didn’t like to be disturbed during his meal. Omar was eating slowly today. Janco had nothing to do and couldn’t understand the language of the news being shown on the TV. He couldn’t step out of the room – no permission from Omar.