by Jay Deb
“Come on in,” he said in French, a language he knew quite well, and held the door open.
As she passed him, she flirtatiously touched his cheek. He gave her a slap on her ass over her black leather skirt. Samuel went inside the toilet. After relieving himself, he sprayed some eau de toilette on his shirt and behind his ears. When he came out, the prostitute was filing her nails. She stood up and headed for the bathroom.
Ten minutes and some meaningless talk later, the woman took off her clothes and lay on the bed, waiting for Samuel. When Samuel got on top of her, his manhood was limp, and he blamed it on her age.
Forty-seven.
“I asked for a thirty-year-old,” Samuel grumbled.
“I’m thirty-three,” the woman snapped, which Samuel knew was a lie.
“I hate liars.” He pressed his nose on hers and grabbed her shoulders.
“It’s your fault,” the woman said angrily and clenched her teeth. “You’re not man enough.”
“What did you say?” In a moment, Samuel was taken over by rage and felt the rush of blood into his brain. His hands closed around her neck, and his face became red with fury.
“I said you’re a prick,” the woman said and pouted. “Now let me go.”
“You are not going anywhere, bitch!” he said as he tightened his fingers around her throat. “I want my money’s worth.”
The woman looked scared and started fighting to get away from under him. But Samuel’s strong hands were constricting her windpipe. Her hooks and jabs were as useless as the kicks she delivered to Samuel’s strong hip.
He pressed his nose harder on hers as his hands held tight around her neck. The woman grabbed his hair with both of her hands, but it did not affect him. He continued to choke her.
Minutes later, her body went limp; her legs lay spread and palms pointed to the ceiling.
Samuel finally let go and got off the woman. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, he realized what a mess he had just created. He panicked; in just two weeks he had killed two women. Thought of jail flashed through his brain. He had seen a prison, and what he hated the most about it was that an inmate had to do his toilet business in public. Anyone could pass by and see him like that. Moments later he smiled to himself. I ain’t going to no jail.
In his mind, he quickly went through the things he needed to do for cleanup. First he wrapped the woman’s body in the bed sheet. Then he made a few phone calls.
Chapter 11
CIA DIRECTOR STONEWALL stared at the computer monitor. For the third time, she was going over the agenda of her three p.m. meeting.
Stonewall had dithered when President Campbell’s aide called her two years ago, asking her to become the first female director of the CIA. Her professor husband was all for it, but her mother and sister, her confidants, were against it. She had a twelve-year-old son and a nine-year-old daughter. The kids had no opinion on whether Mom should accept the new job, but the older one insisted that Mom should be home by seven p.m. and should spend the weekends with him.
Stonewall had mixed feelings about her two-year service as the National Security Officer under the previous president. She had liked the responsibility but hated the constant bickering among politicians and their urge for power and micromanagement.
Ultimately, her husband had won, and she headed for the confirmation hearing at the Senate. During the three-day-long hearing, she was pounded by all sorts of insults and innuendos, especially from Senator Brushback. It was almost as if he had a personal agenda against her. She knew that the only appointee he had so vehemently opposed was Chuck Jones, the now deceased DEA administrator.
After being confirmed for the director position, the friction with Brushback only increased, and the senator went after her every chance he got. As director, Stonewall decided to keep the deputy director, Lazarus West, who was picked for the position by the previous head of the CIA. Lazarus was a trusted, experienced hand, who had worked with the agency for more than twenty years. He was revered by many in the agency and feared by most.
But Lazarus was due to retire within a year, so finding a replacement was a top priority for Stonewall.
She had called for a short meeting with Lazarus right before the three p.m. call. She swung round in her chair as Lazarus walked in her office and took a seat.
“Can you take care of the three p.m. call?” Stonewall was quick to the point. “I have a more important meeting to attend.” She lied. She just wanted to avoid another face-off with Brushback.
“No problem,” Lazarus said, grinning. “Who else will be there?”
“Senator Brushback, two other senators, one of our field officers in Tehran and an Israeli agent from Mossad named Nadav. The meeting is about an operation Nadav was about to embark on, in Iran. We have asked him to hold off till our own man gives the go-ahead.”
“What if Mossad doesn’t listen to us? What should we do?” Lazarus asked.
“That’s why I’m asking you to be at the meeting, to smooth out things with them and hold off that asshole Brushback. He thinks Mossad should do what we tell them to do.”
Lazarus shifted in his chair and adjusted his glasses. “Okay, I’ll do it, but there is something I need to talk to you about.”
“What?” Stonewall looked at Lazarus inquisitively and touched her chin. Quid pro quo, she thought.
“There’s this guy: Max Doerr. He left us three years back, and now he wants to come back.”
“I heard about him. He’s hot tempered – shouted at a senator and was forced to resign, correct?”
“That is correct, but he was one of the best of the best. His sniping capabilities are unparalleled. Many of us used to call him ‘the assassin.’”
“But, if we take him back, won’t that send the wrong message to other operatives?”
“Maybe.” Lazarus touched the back of his neck nervously.
Stonewall could see that Lazarus wanted Doerr back desperately. She leaned forward and asked, “Any other reason why you think we should take him back?”
Lazarus hesitated and then said, “Yes, there are other reasons. He saved my life once.”
“How?”
“When Doerr was working in Saudi Arabia, we were due to have a meeting in Riyadh’s Al-Faisaliah Hotel. I was to meet three Saudi intel agents. A senator was going to join us as well. Minutes before the meeting, Doerr called me and said there was a ninety percent chance that a terrorist attack was going to take place in that hotel. I ignored him, and we were all set to start the meeting, but Doerr called and warned me again. I didn’t show up and asked the senator not to go as well. Later, we learned that three gunmen erupted into the conference room at around the time when we were supposed to have that meeting. The gunmen opened fire. Nine people died, including two of the three Saudi intel agents. The third one was shot twice in the chest. We discovered that terrorists had placed some gas cylinders in the room next to the conference room, but luckily they didn’t explode. So, yes, I probably owe my life to him.”
“Okay.” Stonewall clutched a pen. “Let me think about it. I’ll let you know. But for now, don’t tell him anything.” She turned her attention to the computer monitor on her desk, indicating the meeting was over.
Chapter 12
Ross Calpone had good people skills. He knew it; plenty of people told him so. He was neither brave nor physically strong. If he hadn’t cheated in his college exams, Ross would never have gotten a degree. He was bad with books but good with people.
After he graduated from Florida State University, he spent six months by the sea in Italy, under the sun. Money was not an issue; his father had plenty of it from his large orange business in the sunshine state. Ross spent months in the Catanzaro area of Italy, had a local girlfriend for a few months and could speak the local language passably, in a broken manner.
After he returned from Italy, his father had wanted him to pursue a career in law enforcement. The father thought it would make him look good if his son joined the FBI.
At five feet six inches, 180 pounds, and with a low GPA, he was not the kind of person the FBI was looking to recruit.
Ross applied for a job at the FBI and was rejected after the first interview. After that, he filled in an application form on the CIA website. He was surprised to be selected after two tests. Soon he figured out why they selected him.
At that time, the FBI was working on catching some New York Mafia bosses. They had the bosses under surveillance and were able to plant a mole within the organization. The Mafia was involved in money laundering and contract killing, but their big business was importing cocaine from Columbia. The New York bosses had outsourced the nitty-gritty of the importing process to those in Catanzaro, Italy. The Catanzaro people dealt with the bosses in Columbia, and they managed the ships that sailed from near Bogota and ended somewhere on the shores of North Carolina, unmonitored by the Coast Guard. Someone from New York would drive to Carolina in a big van, and the cocaine would later be distributed on the streets of New York. Money would then move from New York to Rome, laundered through a business that looked legitimate. The guys in Catanzaro would send the money to Bogota in small installments. The business had been working smoothly for years, and the FBI was determined to break it.
With the information from the mole, the FBI conducted a few raids and arrested many members of the Mafia but not the top bosses; they were suspicious that the bosses might have figured out the mole’s true identity, so he had to be taken off the case.
The FBI contacted the CIA to help monitor the criminals in Catanzaro, and that was why Ross was recruited. It was his familiarity with the Catanzaro area and his knowledge of the Italian language that pushed the envelope in his favor.
After two months of training in Virginia, Ross was sent to Catanzaro; he was happy to be back in the area and even tried to contact his old girlfriend. Ross was given the address of a bar that was frequented by the Catanzaro criminals who worked with the New York bosses. Ross went to the bar a few times and watched the men but did not approach them; they looked formidable.
A few days later, his former Italian girlfriend, Rosa, called back. He went back to the bar with her, and this time, with a local girl by his side, he felt more confident. He talked to the men and bought them drinks.
Ross later spoke to the bosses in Langley about his progress, and it was decided that Ross and his girlfriend would move to the safe house on the beach.
It was a two-story house located two hundred feet away from the water, strategically surrounded by small trees and a high fence. It had no veranda, and a tiny wooden board was placed at the gate with the words ‘Villa Cicero’ inscribed on it. The house had four bedrooms, two of which held communication devices and computers, and the third one had weaponry and ammunition. Only the fourth bedroom had a bed, which was used by occasional guests. Before Ross moved in, the house was properly cleaned and bugged with tiny video cameras. Some computers and gadgets were stowed in closets, and some were taken to other locations.
Two weeks later, Ross invited his new friends to the beach house. The agency instructed Ross to tell them that he had a big wine business and was considering moving to Italy permanently.
The Catanzaro Mafia guys started using the CIA safe house as a party place, got drunk, and told Ross exactly what they did for living and who they worked with. The people at Langley were watching and listening in real time. Ross wore an undetectable earbud and microphone. Every step he took, every sentence he spoke, was being dictated to him from Langley.
One day, Peter, the big guy among the ruffians, bragged to Ross that he controlled businesses all over the world and detailed how and where a small ship would reach American shores, before dancing with Rosa as music blared. After dancing for a while, Peter became tired and sat on the sofa. Ross sat next to him and quietly questioned him about how he would be paid for the American shipment. The man told Ross details about who would send the payments, how many there would be and to which banks they would be sent.
Langley listened to the conversation through the tiny microphone lodged inside Ross’s ear. The CIA passed all that information to the FBI.
Later, the FBI watched as a van picked up the bags filled with cocaine from the deserted seashore in North Carolina. The FBI watched the van make a few stops and drop a few bags at each location. The vehicles made a final stop in Brooklyn.
The FBI followed the money transactions that took place between banks in New York and Rome.
A few days later, there was a news story on the TV that claimed that the FBI had managed to infiltrate and bring down a complete network of Mafia and drug lords.
Ross boarded a plane bound for America the day he was given clearance by the agency. Once he reached home, he swore that he would never visit Italy again. After a week off, spent relaxing at his Florida home, he went back to Langley and confronted his boss. “You’ve got to give me a desk job. I can’t go back to the field.”
“You have to do at least three field jobs,” his boss replied rudely, “before you can be considered for a desk job. It was in your employment contract. Go back and read it. You were trained for operations.”
“I was shitting in my pants when you guys were giving me instructions and I had to tell those guys whatever you wanted me to say. Those people were dangerous. If they’d found out I was a spook, they would’ve killed me right there and then. Training is something, but standing in front of the enemy, facing death, is something entirely different.”
“You were not alone. All our employees do that on a regular basis. Men and women. You have no choice.”
“In that case, I will have to resign. I’ll go and work for my dad.”
His boss frowned and said, “Let me talk to my boss. I’ll get back to you by the end of the day.”
Ross would later come to know that his boss had decided to let him go. But when his boss had discussed it with a senior manager, he was urged to keep Ross on the payroll, due to the high-profile nature of the case Ross had worked on.
That first mission had been fifteen years ago, and now Ross had a good life, managing people at the agency, holding a position just two levels below Lazarus’s deputy director post. But Ross was an ambitious man, and that ambition grew manyfold when Brushback became a member of the Senate Intelligence Committee. His dad had not only made hefty contributions to the senator’s campaigns, but he had made many of his rich friends contribute as well, and now it was time for Brushback to return the favor.
IT WAS A cold but pleasant day in December. Doerr gazed at the naked trees as he walked with Gayle in Central Park, where hawkers were showing their food items and tourists were sauntering about.
Gayle purchased a hot dog, took a few bites and offered the rest to Doerr. Doerr bit off a big piece and realized that he was walking by the spot where the DEA administrator’s body had dropped dead, a month back. The soil around that place seemed more barren to him. Doerr knew the powerful man was survived by two teenage children. A pang hit him in the chest. He felt a sudden desire to tell everything to his wife. He thought he was committing a sin by withholding things from her.
“Do you like it?” Gayle asked.
“Like what?”
“The hot dog, silly.”
“Yeah, I like it,” said Doerr and rubbed his palms.
“Let’s sit someplace.”
“Let’s go over there.” Doerr took her to a corner. When they got there, they realized the empty bench was covered in ample amounts of bird poop. “Do you want to sit here or over there?” Doerr pointed to the grass, most of which was dead.
“Let’s go there.” Gayle walked to the grass; she sat down, and Doerr followed.
He settled next to her with his shoulder touching hers. He could see the CNN building and the other tall structures around it.
Doerr looked into her hazel eyes, took her right hand, and held it between his palms, and gave it a soft rub.
“This is the best time of the year. Don’t you think?” Gayle asked. “The weathe
r is nice, and people are too. I think we should come here every year during the holidays. What do you say?”
“Yeah, we should.” He decided to tell her everything and felt bad that he was about to ruin the moment for her. But telling her about his last assassination was something he had to do. The ball of grief in his chest was growing like a monster. He felt his feet were becoming bogged down in a sea of mud. “Gayle,” he said, “there is something I have to tell you. I’m just hurting too much, keeping it inside.”
“What is it?” Looking concerned, Gayle placed her arm on his shoulder. She gave him a stare and pursed her lips. “Tell me.”
“You must have read about the DEA administrator being murdered, right here in this park?”
“Yes. My mother showed it to me. But why are you asking about that?”
“I…Gayle, I–” Doerr sighed and lowered his head.
“What!” Gayle almost shouted and then lowered her voice. “You what?”
“It was me who took the shot, Gayle. From over there.” He pointed to the building on Fifth Avenue. He held her face in his palms and stroked the tiny gold earrings that hung from her earlobes. “I killed him from there. But Samuel duped me into it.”
“Samuel?” Her jaw dropped. “Isn’t he your colleague?”
“Was.” Doerr told her everything. He explained how the whole thing happened and how the CIA had confirmed that Samuel didn’t work for them anymore and then how his boss Lazarus threw him out of the Langley office and treated him like a street dog.
“Now I’m not sure what I should do next. I just had to tell you, Gayle. And I’m sorry I’m putting you through this. But you are the only person I could tell. Now Samuel has killed the woman who used to live there.” Doerr pointed to the building again. “The FBI is investigating. Maybe they’ll find Samuel soon.”
Her nostrils flared, and her chest heaved up and down with her heavy breathing. Her face became cherry red; she was angry. “But if they find Samuel, next they will come for you. Isn’t that true?”