by Jay Deb
“Why, dear?” Doerr touched her cheek. “Are you okay?”
“Can I ask you something, Max?”
“Sure.”
“Have you always been truthful to me about everything?” She stood inches away from him, her eyes fixed on his. “Who is Samuel? And was Billy really your son?”
Doerr sighed. “Okay, I must confess I have not told you lots of things, but I haven’t lied to you. Maybe I should have told you about my previous job a long time ago, and now I will. But can it wait till Saturday?”
“Tell me everything now.” Gayle sat down on the sofa. “Come here. Sit down.”
Doerr looked at Gayle. “Okay, just give me two minutes to change, and I’ll tell you everything.” He headed for the bathroom. He changed into pajamas and then came back to the sofa. The lights were bright, and Gayle’s eyes were peering at him.
“Okay, just hear me out, all right?” said Doerr.
“Okay.” Gayle scooted over slightly.
“When I was a senior in college,” Doerr sat down and started talking, “a man named Ted approached me. He was a recruiter for the CIA. He told me I would be a good candidate for them. I had the right combination of muscle and intellect that they look for; that’s what I was told. He said the money wouldn’t be good initially, but that would change after a few years. I would have to go through a year’s intensive training at Langley, followed by two years of apprenticeship under a senior agent.
“I always wanted to serve my country. As I was finishing my education, that urge only got stronger. I wasn’t sure how I would do it, though. After Ted told me everything, I wasn’t sure if joining the CIA was the right way to go. I thought about it for days. My dad had died from cancer, and I couldn’t discuss it with my mom. Being their only child, I knew Mom would have freaked out. Ted forbade me to discuss the matter with anyone, anyway. After a week, after swearing my buddy Frank to secrecy – I asked for his opinion.
“Frank said, ‘You’ll get killed, dude, and no one will even know.’” Doerr continued. “Strangely, that statement gave me courage and enthusiasm. My father was in the Marines, and I wasn’t afraid to die.
“The first year of training went fine. It was fun, I made lots of friends, and later, that came in handy. I had to shadow a senior agent for only a year before getting an independent assignment. My first assignment was in Belarus. I got bored within three months, and they sent me to Libya. And that was when the real action started.
“Within three years I was promoted to senior agent; I had my own team, but I liked to do the field work myself. Lazarus West, my boss, said to me once, ‘I never saw a senior agent so young.’ I was twenty-six. One of my skills was sniping down targets, and I was quite good at that. Some said I was one of the best snipers they produced. Some called me ‘the assassin.’”
“I remember you said you worked at the CIA, the first day we met,” Gayle said. “I thought that was just a joke.”
“No,” Doerr corrected her. “I was truthful. The day I saw you first I was sort of spellbound, and the truth came out naturally. Maybe I should have told you everything in detail back then.
“But I wasn’t allowed to tell you everything, and even now I can’t tell you all the details of my job, but I will give you the gist,” Doerr said, leaning back on the sofa, legs stretched out in front of him. “It was 2008, a few months before I met you, and our unit had been under attack for a while to cut our budget. It made me very frustrated. I was heading two teams, one in Saudi Arabia and the other in Syria. I had a total of seventy able, dedicated men and women working for me directly or indirectly. I was told to wind down both, which was crazy. We had spent years building relations with the locals.
“When I gave an ultimatum to my boss that we had to keep both teams on-site, he scheduled a meeting with Senator Kubrick. The senator had been reelected in Ohio two years before. He was a member of the budget committee. We believed he had a certain amount of budget at his discretion.
“A week later, my boss, Lazarus, and I were headed for the Capitol. I had been there before, begging for money for our agency. But this time it was different. Not only were the jobs of many I knew in jeopardy, but I felt America’s security was threatened by our own people.
“Anyway, we all sat down with the senator to discuss the matter. I pleaded my case, and the senator listened with respect, initially. I said, ‘My guys have developed a unique knowledge, we don’t want to lose it; it will take a long time to build it from scratch again.’ The senator’s demeanor changed, the smile on his face turned into a frown. He said, ‘Listen, wherever there is government, there is indulgence. There is always room to cut funds. I know this, and the American people know this. We have already taken care of the terrorists. We are busting their asses with drones and crashing their hideouts in Afghanistan, Syria, Nigeria and everywhere else.’
“I said, ‘With all due respect, sir, there are plenty of threats to America. Hardliners swear their newborn kids to kill Americans the moment they see one. We have–’
“The senator was getting angrier. He interrupted me, ‘I know that there are threats. I’m no fool. But the Saudis are friends, and I strongly feel that we don’t need Unit Twelve there anymore. The president wants this to happen.’
“I was shocked, my jaw dropped, and I asked, ‘Our president has personally taken the decision to chop my unit?’ The senator replied, ‘Not directly. Didn’t you hear his speech in Ohio? With budget deficit growing like wild mushrooms and our government begging money from the Chinese Premier like a New York beggar, we have to start cutting our spending.’
“I was getting desperate and frustrated at the same time. I said tersely, ‘Mr. Kubrick, you have over hundred million under your wing, and my units cost only about two million each…’
“My boss was only prepared to listen so far, and he frowned at me in disapproval and said, ‘Max, we don’t know what he has or what he controls.’
“The senator turned to Lazarus and said, ‘Let him speak. This is what our great country is all about. We all can express ourselves without fear.’ Then I asked the same question again. Why was there no money for my units? The senator leaned back and replied, ‘We can’t spend and spend watching foreign countries, especially the friendly ones like Saudi Arabia. It is time for us to focus on domestic matters. One day before election, standing on a podium at Cleveland, I promised the great people of Ohio that there would be a fast rail connection between Cleveland and Columbus, one day. I have to keep that promise. You know how long these fucking projects take? If we start this year, it will be completed in 2014.’
“I knew the senator would be due for reelection in 2014, good timing for him.”
Gayle was listening with her mouth agape. “Then what happened?”
“I sadly realized how cold politicians could be. They were ready to compromise national security for a piece of pork. I had read about that fast train project. It was estimated that less than a hundred people a day would ride that route, if it were ever built. I was sad and angry. I felt that I could not get my men what they needed. I felt betrayed. I stood up and blurted something at the senator and left. I would come to know later that the senator didn’t take that lightly.
“The next day, when I met Lazarus, he asked me to apologize to the senator or resign. So I gave my resignation.”
Doerr looked into Gayle’s eyes. “This was in September 2008. I had met you two months before.” Gayle nodded, and Doerr continued. “I am sorry I didn’t tell you everything before. But I made a promise to myself on New Year’s Day in 2009, when we skated together on the ice in Central Park, to never lie to you or withhold anything knowingly, except about my CIA past. I’m sure I just broke some of their code of conduct by telling you those details. But I don’t care.”
Doerr glanced at his watch. It was 12:10 a.m. He had been tired when he had reached home. After talking for over an hour, he felt even more so. “Do you have any other questions?”
Gayle hesitated
and then said, “Just one more.”
“What is it?”
“Was Billy your biological son?”
Doerr sighed. He never talked about his first marriage. But he wanted to get over it. “All right, I will tell you everything. I met Sally during my first year of training. It was love at first sight for me. We met through a common friend. Billy was Sally’s son from an unfortunate teen pregnancy. It didn’t bother me at all. At that time, she was attending school to earn a degree in Mass Communication, and Billy was being taken care of by his grandmother. We dated for a year, and then, after I had finished the operation in Lybia, I proposed. She said yes, and after our wedding I took a month off. Together we went on a month-long tour – SanFran, Yellowstone, and Las Vegas. It felt like we were in heaven.
“A few years passed by. She was busy with school, and I was busy with my job. We were together whenever I was home. Neither I nor Sally was interested in having another child. Then the worst day for our family came in June 1999. It was a Tuesday; I picked up Billy from daycare and reached home around seven p.m. I got a call from the police. Sally had been killed in a car accident. A truck rammed into her compact car and sent it into a tumble.
“After her death I legally adopted Billy and changed his name. There wasn’t a single day I thought he wasn’t my son.”
Gayle placed her hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry I made you go through all this.”
“Don’t worry. I was going to tell you soon, anyway. But I’m happy that I did it tonight. I feel relieved. Why don’t you go to bed; you’ve got work tomorrow.”
THE NEXT MORNING, Doerr woke up late, as usual. He was surprised to see Gayle was still home.
“Good thing you took a day off,” he said. “You needed it.”
They had their breakfast together. Doerr chomped a large piece of bacon, and his gaze fell on Gayle’s gloomy face.
He figured out what it was. Because of him, she was under so much stress, and he knew her mom was always urging her to spend some time with her.
He suggested that she go and spend a few days with her mom, maybe a few weeks; after all, she had a fairly stressful job.
“No way,” she said and put her coffee mug down. “And leave you here in this situation? Never.”
“I’ll be fine. Remember, I’m trained to endure much harsher conditions. Trust me.”
“If I go, who will take care of you? Who will make your morning coffee, and who will wash your laundry? I can’t go.”
“No, please go. I can’t see you suffer with me. Go to your mother’s. I will still be sad, and pain will cover my heart. But apart, our pain will be less. Do it for me. Please.” In his mind, Doerr still felt that she would be in less pain if she stayed with her mother for a while.
After more persuasion, she agreed to go to her mom’s place. “I don’t know how jolly I’ll be at my mother’s. I won’t be able to stop thinking about you. I hope you’ll be able to think clearly and not worry about me when I’m gone,” she said. “By the way, someone named Samuel left a voicemail for you.”
Chapter 4
SAMUEL. THE NAME struck him like a broken note from the Mozart symphony number forty, which Doerr often played on his Yamaha piano to cool down his nerves. Samuel was a CIA colleague who many people had avoided, though many people had loved him as well. Samuel had done weird things. Behind his back, many had talked foul of him, but no one dared to say it to his face. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and a distinctive, deep scar on his right cheek, which made him look even more masculine.
Days after walking out on the senator and losing most of his privileges, Doerr had wished he had Samuel by his side to smooth out the tension that had filled the air when he had decided to resign from the agency. By the time Samuel had called him, he had already handed in his resignation letter and lost even the simplest privileges that even a junior agent used to have.
He wanted to forget about Samuel. Samuel’s memory only brought back the past, the painful past. Doerr walked to the piano and started playing. As his fingers danced across the keys, he could feel his stress levels decreasing. But, after a few minutes, he wasn’t sure if the music was relieving or bringing back the pain. He stood up, determined not to check the voicemail; he entered the bathroom and started a long cold shower. When he came out, it was already twelve p.m., time for him to head for work.
WHEN HE ARRIVED back to his empty home late that night, he went straight to his piano. He switched it to silent mode; as he pressed the minor keys, he felt emptiness in his chest that the symphony could not fill. He played for a few more minutes, and then he poured himself a glass of red wine. After drinking it quickly, he poured another. The resulting dizziness made him rush to the phone. He was about to dial Gayle’s number, but he stopped. He didn’t want to transfer his stress to her.
It had been a while since he had slept alone. He poured another refill of wine into the glass. As the red liquid danced inside the glass, it brought back the memory of Billy as a toddler, running around the house, and the days when he had taken care of him all by himself. Alcohol ran down his esophagus, spreading the pain all around his body. That was when he walked to the base of the landline phone and hit the play button.
Doerr heard the message and was confused by it.
Samuel’s message did not leave a number to call back. It was late at night, but Doerr called a few friends and finally found Samuel’s number. He immediately dialed it. “Hello, Samuel?”
After pleasantries, Samuel asked, “How are things? Are you happy with an editor’s desk job?”
“What can I say?” Doerr decided not to mention the family tragedy. “It pays the bills. I wanted out of the agency, and I am out.”
“That bastard, Lazarus, gave you such a raw deal. If I were you, I would have sued the hell out of him.”
“Maybe I should have.” Doerr knew very well that the agency could not be sued, let alone one of its employees. “So what is this job you left me a message about?”
“Right, right. The thing is…if you’re not too busy,” Samuel paused; the sound of a beverage entering a glass could be heard on the line. Samuel was known to be a hard drinker. “You know the CIA has been trying to outsource some of the dirty work lately. Five years back, this would have been called ludicrous. But they’re pushing us to the brink. Do you think the job of a well-trained agent can be done by anyone else? Israeli or British Intelligence – maybe. Mossad or MI6. Anyway, we have to hire someone for three specific jobs. One in Europe, one in Asia and one right here in America. The jobs require some specific skills. I think you are the right candidate. I would like to have you back at the agency; the CIA never produced a better sniper than you. We all know that.”
“But what do I get?” Doerr said in a surly voice. He took his shirt off and held the cordless phone close to his ear.
“Depending on how things go, you could get your job back. You may get all the unpaid benefits – that could amount to over hundred grand.”
“I don’t care about the money.” Doerr took a sip of his wine. “Give me the details of the job, and I’ll think about it.”
“It’s getting late. I will be in the big city this Saturday. Why don’t we meet at our favorite bar, by Thirty-Third Street? You haven’t forgotten about that place, have you?”
“How could I forget? We met there a million times.”
“All right then. Let’s meet on Saturday around, say, seven?”
“Okay. See you then.”
“And by the way, two other old buddies will be there. It will be a nice get-together for the agency men.”
“All right.”
THE DOORLESS, NONDESCRIPT entrance to the shabby building on Thirty-Third Street gave the impression that it was perhaps a drug joint. The cracks on the concrete stairs told passersby that it did not hold the corporate house of any healthy business. If any visitor decided to check it out, they would be first greeted with a ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY’ sign at the turn
of the stairs. At the next turn, the intruder would read a second sign – ‘DO NOT ENTER, VIOLATORS PROSECUTED.’ If anyone dared to pass those signs and proceed upstairs, four heavily armed men of huge proportion would confront them. The men wouldn’t listen to any lame excuse and would send the startled visitor back down the stairs in less than thirty seconds. They were authorized to use force to keep people out. But that was never necessary.
Doerr had gone upstairs there many times. In fact, his second meeting with his recruiter, Ted, had occurred there, on the seventeenth floor, the floor reserved for human resources. All twenty-three levels of the building were used by the agency. Each floor had its own security guards, and there was eight-inch-thick glass on the wall where windows were supposed to be installed. The specially made glass was designed to protect from bullets and even small missiles. No one could see anything from outside, but they still dressed the windows with white blinds.
As Doerr passed by the building, he glanced at the entrance. It looked the same as it had when he had gone there the first time, deserted and desolate, heartless and lonely. A homeless man sat next to the entrance, begging for quarters. Doerr put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a five-dollar note and gave the money to the beggar. He walked two more blocks till he reached Susie’s Bar, the old favorite meeting place.
It was seven p.m., and the place was already getting crowded. There were about twenty tables, but none of them were empty. All the stools around the bar were occupied too. Doerr looked around for Samuel but was unable to locate him. He glanced at a young man at the corner table, who was sipping his beer, seated uncomfortably between two older men, one of whom had a dense beard. Doerr kept walking and then turned, hearing his name. Samuel and two other guys were seated on three stools facing the bar.
Doerr recognized the other two men; one man’s name was Victor, but he didn’t remember the other man’s name.
“Hey, Max.” Victor stood up and extended his hand for a shake; he leaned in and bumped chests with Doerr as his thick brown beard touched Doerr’s shoulder. “It’s a shame that we live in the same damn city and don’t even meet once a year.”