by Jay Deb
“Sorry, I’ve been busy,” Doerr greeted him.
After more pleasantries and ordering drinks, Doerr stood talking to his old buddies. With his wife gone, in some way it felt like he was regressing back to the past. Feeling uneasy, he looked straight at Samuel and asked, “When are we going to discuss business?”
“Let’s just enjoy tonight,” Samuel said as he raised his beer bottle, “with these wonderful guys.” He pointed to Victor and the other man.
“Okay.” It made sense to Doerr. This noisy place wasn’t suitable for business anyway. Some sort of dance music was blaring through the air. Conveniently, two men beside the group finished their drinks and left; Doerr sat down on one of the vacated stools and settled in next to his friends. The four men sat there, drinking and enjoying the Yankees baseball game that was being shown on the seventy-two-inch plasma TV.
After a while, Doerr said, “Walking by that building on Thirty-Third Street gave me a chill down my legs. It brought back so many memories.”
“But don’t go there. Many floors have been leased out,” Samuel said. “And you know how we operate. If you’re not within their operation, you’re as good as an outsider.”
Doerr nodded. “I know.”
They kept watching TV, drinking and talking. Before he knew it, a few hours had passed by.
It was getting late. Doerr glanced at his watch – 11:50 p.m.
“How long are we gonna stay?” he asked.
“Let’s enjoy it, man! Night is young,” Samuel said. “What have you got to do at home?”
Doerr knew he was right. Another hour passed by; the crowd thinned out, and the laughs waned. Other than him and his friends, only three other customers remained to enjoy their drinks. A single bartender, looking tired, was taking care of business.
Doerr’s eyes drifted to the mirror on the wall. In the reflection, he saw a thin figure appear at the door. Doerr was shocked to see a gun in the man’s hand. The gunman sprinted within five feet of Doerr. Raising the gun, the man pointed it directly at Doerr’s head.
“Give me your wallet!” the man yelled.
Doerr turned and looked straight at the skinny man’s black mask.
“Give me your fucking wallet or everyone here dies,” the man shouted again and raised the gun a few inches higher.
Shocked, Doerr reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and glanced at Samuel. Samuel looked like he was waiting for him to hand over the wallet and end the confrontation.
Doerr extended his hand to give him the wallet. The gunman inched forward, expecting to grab the black leather wallet. Doerr took one step, swinging his right hand up, hitting the man’s lower jaw. The noise of crashing teeth was audible, even over the music. Doerr moved his left hand with supersonic speed to snatch the gun from the thug’s hand. But the son of a bitch had good reflexes; he pulled his arm away and then hit Doerr in the face with the butt of the gun. But Doerr was not to be outdone. He hit the mugger’s right elbow, and the gun flew out of his hand.
The masked man stood there, stunned, but only for a second, before sprinting off like a startled deer. Doerr ran after him, but the thief ran into the darkness of Gotham City, and Doerr could not see him. On the way back to the bar, he touched his face and felt the warm blood there.
Once back in the bar, Samuel looked at him with a big smile. “You saved everyone today.”
“It was nothing,” Doerr said. “I don’t know why he came to me. I mean, there were others.”
“I don’t know either,” Samuel replied. “Maybe because you were closest to the door.”
The bartender came up and showed appreciation. “You’re my hero. We get thugs like that coming in once in a while. We installed a security camera, but the bastards have adapted, and now they wear masks. Now, tell me, what drink would you like as thanks?”
“Nothing,” Doerr said, feeling tired from fighting and running. “No, thanks. I should be going.”
“No way,” Samuel said, “let’s celebrate. Everyone wants to spend time with a hero like you.” He turned to Victor and the other man. “Right, guys?”
“Yeah,” Victor and the other man shouted together.
Samuel turned to the bartender, who was still staring at Doerr with admiration. Samuel said to him, “Get him a Grey Goose vodka with orange juice. And get the first-aid kit, will you?”
“Right away, sir.” The bartender went back behind the bar.
When he came back with the kit, Doerr put a Band-Aid over the cut on his face. “I really need to go,” Doerr said with a serious voice. “Goodbye, fellas,” he said and left.
He walked a few blocks and again passed the building on Thirty-Third Street. This time, however, he did not think of his past profession, which may soon become his line of work again. He was thinking about Gayle. His heart ached; he doubted whether sending her away was the right decision.
Chapter 5
The following morning, Doerr opened his eyes as the phone blared; sunlight broke through the white blinds, infusing just enough light for him to see the cordless phone lying on the corner table. He extended his right hand and picked it up.
It was Samuel. “Good morning, buddy.”
“Good morning.” Doerr was sleepy; years of working late at the newspaper had given him the bad habit of sleeping late. “I was expecting your call, but not so early.”
“Hey, you passed the test.”
“What test?”
“Remember the guy with the gun at the bar.” Samuel laughed. “He was our guy. I sent him to make sure you haven’t lost your reflexes after years of working a desk job at the newspaper.”
“First of all, I don’t have a desk job. Secondly, why the hell did you send someone to hurt me?” Doerr sat up and became angry. “What if I’d really got hurt? The guy took a big swing with his gun.”
“I knew you would take care of him and pass. Besides, Victor and I were there. But I knew you would do the job, as you always did. I want you back, Max. Can I have your word?”
Doerr calmed but said nothing. He pondered whether he should tell Samuel about his precarious family situation.
“Max?” Samuel said.
“Yeah, sorry. Let me think about it. I’ll get back to you in a few days.”
“Okay, the official letters will be mailed out to you on Monday.”
DOERR WAS THINKING over a lot of things. He still could not make up his mind whether to rejoin the CIA, back where he had once been humiliated. He wondered if he would have worked for the CIA at all if someone other than the kind old man, Ted, had approached him. Now that he was seriously considering rejoining the agency, the fond memories of his obese mentor came back.
“You have to learn how to be beaten,” Ted had said one day.
“What?” Doerr was surprised. “I thought we’re supposed to straighten out the bad guys.”
“Do you know how many able guys the agency loses every year?” Ted had said, smiling.
“How many?”
“Tens, sometimes over a hundred in a year. Guys get kidnaped, shot, ambushed. It happens all the time. So you have to know how to be beaten, then stay alive. If this scares you, I would suggest you reconsider whether you will join us.”
The pep talk had given him the final push to become a spook. His own father had died from cancer when Doerr was sixteen. Ted had seemed like a father figure when Doerr started at the agency. But the relationship had tapered off over time. Now, three long years after quitting, he wanted to talk to Ted. In fact, he was desperate to speak to Ted. After scanning through his contact list, he came up with Ted’s home number.
The old man would certainly provide the right advice. He dialed the number.
“Hello,” a faint woman’s voice answered.
“Can I talk to Ted?”
The woman at the other end didn’t say anything.
“Hello? Hello?” Doerr said.
“Ted,” the woman finally replied in a broken voice. “Ted died last year.”
“What? How? How did it happen?”
The woman once again remained silent. Doerr realized that he was talking to Ted’s grief-stricken widow.
“Don’t say anything. I was a big fan of Ted,” Doerr said. “I want to talk to you in person. I’ll come and visit you tomorrow if that’s okay with you.”
“Okay,” she replied and gave an address in Rochester, New York.
Doerr realized he would have to drive for eight hours to get there by the evening. He dialed Rent-A-Car’s number to book an early morning pickup.
THE SUN WAS coming out of its night-long slumber, and the dark tarp over the sky was lifted. Doerr held the steering wheel straight with both hands. The rented red Ford Focus trudged forward at sixty-eight miles an hour, cutting through the air that was getting ready to warm itself up. He had a long drive ahead.
When he drove along Highway 490 West into a Rochester suburb, it was a little past six p.m. During the whole trip, he had kept wondering how Ted could have died. Was it his obese body that revolted against him or an accident? Or was it an enemy’s bullet? That couldn’t be it, he thought. Ted wasn’t a field agent.
Guided by the GPS, Doerr reached Ted’s house at six thirty. He parked his car on the roadside and walked toward the door.
The pinkish petals of the magnolia in front of the white-shingled house seemed to smile to him. He walked over the grass, reached the door and pressed the doorbell once, and then two more times.
A thin woman, wearing a purple blouse, opened the white wooden door slowly. She was slim.
“I’m Max.” He extended his hand. “I called yesterday.”
The woman took his hand. “Janice. Please, come in.”
She showed him inside the house and asked, “Do you want something to drink?”
“No, thank you.” He sat down on the sofa. “I was fairly close to Ted, at one time.”
She sat opposite him, her legs crossed. She looked at her knees and said, “He never mentioned your name.”
Doerr understood that Ted had recruited many people to the agency. He could not have mentioned each recruit to his wife. Doerr looked straight at her eyes. He wanted to ask how Ted had died, but he could not pose the question.
The widow stared at the brown carpet for perhaps five seconds and then looked up. “He went to Venezuela. They needed to put some moles in Hugo Chavez’s inner circle. Ted thought he would be the right person. I forbade him.” She paused.
Doerr could see the glistening layer of moisture forming over her eyes. He waited.
“But he didn’t listen.” She wiped the tears off. “He went to Caracas. He emailed about how beautiful the city was, sent me photos. Later I came to know he had gone to the inner city to hire someone who had close contact with a minister. The source was a trusted man but turned out to be a double agent. Ted was duped and taken prisoner. But somehow he managed to text the CIA, who were ready with guns and whatnot. Ted broke through the window. Cut his hand and face. His shirt was bloody, the guys told me later. They found him running toward them in an alley.” She paused and showed her two fingers, an inch apart. “They were this close to saving him.”
“Then what happened?” Doerr asked.
“His weight caught up with him. He stopped to catch his breath. Three local goons, with guns in hand, appeared behind him. The CIA men killed one of the three. But Ted’s huge body was standing in between them, blocking their view. They couldn’t get a good aim. One of the goons raised a gun and shot Ted in the back of the head. He dropped, and the CIA guys released hellfire. All three goons were dead, but so was Ted.”
Doerr was flabbergasted. So many brave men die every year. How shameful it was that men like Ted weren’t worshiped by the American people. Few would know his bravery.
He stood up and placed his hand over hers.
AFTER LEAVING JANICE’S house, he checked into a nearby Days Inn motel. The night seemed darker and longer with Ted’s death lingering in his mind. Doerr felt death was everywhere; it was all pervasive and could reach anyone, at any time. Nobody was safe.
He felt lonely and remembered his old buddy Dan, who had been his classmate at Cornell University. He lived in Buffalo, worked for a large bank, and was single. He called Dan, and his friend insisted that he go over to his house immediately.
Doerr arrived at Dan’s house late in the night. The two friends quickly got reacquainted and settled in for the night, talking, with beer bottles in hand.
“When we meet at the alumni congregation, we always talk about you,” Dan said. “There were always rumors that you joined the CIA. Is that true?”
Doerr avoided that question and asked a counter-question. “Are you happy with what you do?”
“Most of the time. Sometimes it’s a stretch. Where do you work now?”
“I’m between jobs right now.” Doerr wanted to change the topic away from his work. “What is your plan for tomorrow?”
“When was the last time you visited Niagara Falls?”
“About ten years back, I think, maybe even more.”
“Then why don’t we head there tomorrow? We can go to Canada the day after.”
“Niagara Falls sounds good, but I have to head back home late tomorrow.”
THE NEXT MORNING, they were beside the big fall. They rode out on the Maid of the Mist. The boat moved slowly toward the bottom of the fall. The roar of the falling water grew louder. The mist thickened and threatened to engulf the vessel. The boat was barely a hundred feet away from the bottom of the fall, where six hundred thousand gallons of water fell every second. The engine came to a halt, and the boat stopped moving. It kept bobbing back and forth. The thick columns of water in the fall made such a deep noise that everything else seemed insignificant. As Doerr held on to the rail to balance himself, unable to see anyone else, he made up his mind. He would return to the CIA and serve his country. People like Ted’s work should not go in vain.
When he returned to his New York home, he went straight to the mailbox and pulled out six white envelopes, some junk mail and a large brown envelope. He held the large envelope up and looked at the top left corner – Critical Institute of America. He knew who that envelope was from – the CIA. Twelve years ago he had received exactly the same envelope from Ted.
Once in his apartment, he tore open the envelope. The offer letter had the name Central Intelligence Agency written at the top in golden letters; on the top right was the eagle logo. The salary they were offering was $140,000 per year.
That’s generous.
Doerr called Samuel. After pleasantries, he said, “I’ve made up my mind, Samuel. I’m coming back.”
“Good, welcome back, Max. You are a good son of this great country.”
“The salary is a bit generous. I wasn’t expecting that much,” Doerr said.
“That’s because your salary has been calculated as if you never left the agency. You deserve it.”
“Thanks, Samuel, can we talk about the job now?”
“All right, let’s talk business.” Samuel laughed.
“Please.”
“Your first job will be in Bangkok, in three weeks. This guy, Heherson, from the Philippines, has been hiding there. You need to find him and extract some info. I’m emailing the complete dossier on the bastard. Take a look.”
“I will. Bye.” Doerr hung up, unbuttoned his shirt, lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes.
He was tired from the long drive and quickly fell asleep. When he woke up, the room was dark. The green alarm clock displayed 9:10 p.m. He felt the sourness in his mouth. He stood up and turned the lights on. The silence in the room was depressing, and he felt lonely.
Better get used to it, he told himself; in Bangkok there wouldn’t be any friends or family, only enemies.
Chapter 6
THE UNITED AIR Boeing 747 was full to the brim. If it had one more passenger, the passenger would certainly have had to squat on the floor. As the pilot finished his welcome message, Doerr repositioned himself
on the blue, business-class seat. The aircraft took off from La Guardia Airport, and the five-hour-long flight to LAX began.
As the short air hostess brought him a glass of white wine, Doerr opened the dossier on the Filipino man – Heherson – who was his new target. The man was said to be five feet six inches tall and about forty years old. He had a large bald patch on his head, and although he was a man of thin stature, he had a large belly. Heherson had started his career as a drug peddler at the age of fourteen. At sixteen, he had been caught by the police. Due to the country’s tough drug laws, his prospects had looked bleak. A judge had spared his life but sentenced him to spend the rest of his life in prison. Heherson spent the next six years in a federal penitentiary, where he met his mentor – a major figure in a terrorist group linked to Abu Sayyaf. Heherson and his mentor broke out of jail, along with four others.
Since then, Heherson had been a headache for the Philippines government, and two years back, when he had kidnaped two Americans, he became a target for the CIA. The hostages had been kept on a remote island. Heherson moved them from place to place, and the CIA had never been able to locate the captured Americans to retrieve them. They were always one step behind.
The dossier contained a total of twelve photos of Heherson in different disguises. One showed him with sideburns that almost went down to his throat. Another photograph showed the man as clean shaven. In another, he wore a long red and white Santa hat. Doerr started visualizing the man. He would be thin like bamboo; recent running around to evade capture by the CIA had perhaps made him thinner. He might have grown some sort of beard, to hide his appearance.
At Los Angeles, Doerr switched to a Thai aircraft for the final ride to Bangkok. The aircraft took off into the salty Pacific air. The air hostess demonstrated the safety procedures, but Doerr looked outside; the enormous city of Los Angeles became smaller and smaller and was finally lost in the darkness.