by Jay Deb
“Let me check something.” The detective pretended to read some report, and then he put the paper down. “Mr. Doerr,” the detective shifted in his chair and obviously felt uncomfortable, “we got all forensic reports. And…and we have reached a wall.”
“What happens now?” Doerr asked, hoping for something positive.
“I am afraid, sir, without any further information or tips,” the detective paused and took a deep breath, “I am afraid that we will have to close this case.”
Doerr rose without saying anything. He was angry and frustrated but tried to keep his emotions inside. He turned to leave.
“Wait,” the detective said.
“What is it?”
The detective cleared his throat and then said, “We have Billy’s things that we took from the murder scene. Our forensic department is done with those. Let me go and get them.”
The detective left, and two minutes later, he returned with a box in his hands. Doerr took it and opened the case as the detective gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. As he took the box, his eyes became moist, but he controlled himself so tears wouldn’t fall.
Inside were Billy’s wallet, his iPhone, a few pens, coins, two notebooks, and a few other items.
Doerr promptly returned home and laid the box on a table. He sat silently on the sofa, staring at the case. Sadness filled his heart, and life felt meaningless to him. He walked into the bedroom and sat on the stool in front of his piano; he started playing the Mozart symphony number forty in silent mode.
He played for an hour, but it did little to alleviate his melancholy. It was lunchtime, but he did not feel like eating anything; he went back to the living room and peeked into the box that held Billy’s stuff. He picked up the iPhone and turned it on. There was very little charge left on its battery. Doerr played some of the audio recordings. Billy liked to read aloud from his book and then listen to it later during a walk or train ride.
“I gotta go.” That was Billy’s voice, and then there was a silence. Then the sound of a scuffle could be heard, and then there was silence again. Then Billy asked something, and somebody said, “Where is your father?”
That must be the murderer! The voice was familiar. He played it again. “Where is your father?”
Doerr knew that voice. “Samuel,” Doerr yelped, walked to the glass door, and then to the balcony.
“Samuel!” Doerr screamed and punched the glass door. The glass cracked and gouged his knuckles, blood gushing from his shredded skin.
“Samuel!” he screamed and threw the iPhone.
It was all too clear now. Samuel killed Billy so that Doerr would be restless and would easily fall into his elaborate trap. Samuel used him to kill the DEA administrator to collect a hefty sum. But now, Doerr swore, he would do anything to get Samuel. His two missions – to find and eliminate his son’s killer and to kill Samuel – had become one and the same.
IT WAS A bitter cold Sunday morning in January. The temperature on the display board showed 37 degrees. Doerr picked up his groceries and headed home with the yellow plastic bags dangling from his hands. Some people on the road to his apartment wore sweaters, most wore a jacket of some kind; one young man walked around in shorts, eager to show his vitality.
Doerr didn’t like the flu-infested, often ice-covered, cold January month at the best of times, let alone when he was carrying groceries.
He’d made a promise to Gayle before their marriage that he would always pick up the groceries. To him, a promise was just that – a promise. It didn’t change with time, situation or anything else. Gayle had volunteered to do the grocery shopping many times, but he wouldn’t let her. To overcome the problem, Gayle had often stocked up before Doerr came home.
The five grocery bags in one hand and four in the other would have been strenuous for anyone else but not for him. He carried them easily and passed Rosco Video, the cheap DVD store that sold Russian movies for $2.99 a pop. As Doerr took the next step, his eyes fell on the beggar wearing a torn jacket, which was so pale that it was hard to tell what its original color was.
Doerr stopped at the beggar, dropped the grocery bags and took out his wallet. How does this man survive in such temperatures without catching bronchitis? He wondered.
He glanced at the old slippers on the man’s feet. He dropped three twenty-dollar bills and pointed to the shoe shop across the road and said, “Get a pair of shoes.”
The man said nothing but raised the dollar bills as a token of thanks.
Doerr nodded as he picked up his bags and slowly walked away. When he reached his apartment and pressed the switch for the doorbell, he panted a little. Gayle opened the door at one ring of the bell.
He gently dropped the bags on the floor and asked, “Will this be enough for a week?”
“Of course, but will your stay at Langley be longer than a week?”
“I don’t know. But the possibility is always there. They can send me somewhere for one week, one month or even longer.”
“But if you have to go out of the country for an assignment,” Gayle said, touching his shoulder, “you will come home before going, won’t you?”
“Maybe not.” Doerr laughed. “They can send me to the other side of the world with just a few seconds’ notice.”
“I’m worried, Max. Aren’t you?”
“I am. I worry if they will let me work on Samuel or not. If they do, when will it be? I just can’t stop thinking about him.” Doerr clenched his fists. “I feel he is getting away little by little every day, and I can’t do anything about it. Sometimes I feel he is following me and laughing at me.”
“Maybe you should stop thinking about him.”
“How can I?” Doerr looked at her eyes. “I always have chest pain. Samuel seems to be sitting on my chest all the time.”
“But when you find him, what are you going to do?”
“I am going to put a fifty-caliber bullet through his fucking head. Just like he made me do. Then I will lacerate his body with a knife, just like he did to my son.”
“But will that be the right thing to do? Max?”
“That’s the way it should end. Justice, due process – those are for books. After I kill him, I will walk into the Edgar Hoover building and tell the FBI everything. If they think I’m guilty of something, let them punish me. But I will kill Samuel. He deserves no other end.”
“But then what will happen to you? To me?” Gayle cocked her head. “There will be no peace in your life. Our life.”
“Peace is not in living a long life. It is in knowing that you have done the right thing.”
Gayle stood there silently and nodded after a few thoughtful seconds.
STONEWALL SCHEDULED A five p.m. meeting with Lazarus using the Outlook mail system. She left the location field blank and hit the send button at exactly 4:55 p.m. She immediately received the acceptance notification from Lazarus. Usually, Lazarus came to her office for such discussions. But today she decided to make an exception and headed for his office instead.
His office was just as big as hers. The furniture was a little downscale. On the right wall, there was a white projector screen that was a foot shorter than the one in her room. In the left corner there was an old-style TV; her room had a seventy-inch flat-screen TV that hung on the wall.
“Good afternoon.” Lazarus raised his face from the laptop that lay on the squeaky clean glass table as Stonewall took a seat on the wooden chair. “What can I do for you today?”
“The bank for the terrorists…we need to close it down.”
“Which bank are you talking about?”
“The bank of the Lion of Dubai. And not just the bank. We need to take the Lion down too. During my predecessor’s term, Halim took money from others and gave it freely to Hamas, al-Qaeda, al-Shabaab and many other terrorist outfits. There is a rumor that he made money in that process.”
Lazarus nodded. “Yes, we have known him for some time. He has provided money for many terrorist activities. B
ombing in Cairo, training in Somalia, stabbing in London – just to name a few. We have always ignored him because we knew the terrorists are going to get money from somewhere. So far he himself has not taken part in any action. And we’ve been going for bigger fish.”
“If you and the previous director gave enough attention to Halim,” Stonewall’s tone was sarcastic, “I wouldn’t be here with a ton of baggage.”
“I know. Why don’t we hit him with one of our drones?” Lazarus asked as he lifted his face.
Stonewall bit her lower lip, then said, “Drones are preferable. But the problem is we don’t know where the bastard is right now. The images we have are all old. We have asked the Dubai intel chief to find out where Halim is hiding.”
“I met the chief a year back.” Lazarus leaned back in his chair. “He is a capable man. He can take care of things. I trust him. I was talking to him last week about an unrelated matter. He doesn’t throw camel shit.”
“I agree, but this is a very serious matter. We have to send our own team to find out where Halim is now. Tell Doerr that he has to head for Dubai right away and get to the bottom of this. A very capable field officer from Italy will join him in Dubai.”
Lazarus looked surprised. “I thought you didn’t like Doerr. Why did you choose him?”
“I didn’t,” said Stonewall and paused. She touched the glass paperweight and said, “It was an order from the president himself.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope, he somehow knew Doerr’s story. He never liked that senator from Ohio. What’s his name?”
“Kubrick.”
“Yes, Kubrick. The president fought with him when they both were in the Senate. He called me. The president knows how dangerous this Halim guy can be. He asked me to send Doerr to Dubai, ASAP.”
“But didn’t you hint you could find a better person for this job?”
“Good question,” Stonewall said. “I discussed it with the president. He argued for Doerr. He argued that Doerr is good, and he is an unknown commodity where he is going to go.”
“And what is he going to do once he finds Halim?”
“Bring him to justice, of course.”
“That means put two bullets through his head. Right?”
“The president was lecturing me that we have to be civilized. He wants us to bring him here and try him in a court of law.”
Lazarus laughed. “And we are going to do that?”
“Of course not. I would like to talk to Doerr once he gets back.”
“Sure. I will arrange the meeting,” said Lazarus. “Another thing, will you let me handle this case? I will manage the whole thing and report to you any way you want.”
“Are you sure?” Stonewall pursed her lips. “Do you wish to handle the whole shebang? I mean, you are so close to retirement. It may not be finished by the time your retirement day comes.”
“Please, madam,” Lazarus said desperately. “Let me manage this one. So I can tell my grandkids, someday.”
“Okay, if you want it so badly. But I need a daily report every day, by three p.m. Got it?”
“No problem,” Lazarus said, and Stonewall rose to leave.
“Thank you, Madam Director,” Lazarus said as she stepped out.
Chapter 15
Zakir Kassem was over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a thick beard that made him look bigger than he really was. He was strong; he could take down any muscleman all by himself. But that was not the reason he was appointed the intelligence chief of Dubai Police Force. He was a direct descendant of the Al Maktoum family; that was not the whole reason for his meteoric ascent into power, but it had definitely helped. Kassem had served in the country’s military, where he rose to the rank of lieutenant general in five years. He was sent to Pakistan to train with supposedly the best intelligence organization in the Muslim world.
He had spent one year in Pakistan as part of his training and closely worked with the ISI, the CIA equivalent of Pakistan. In that stint, he had learned not only how terrorism worked across the globe but also how to spy on the country’s own population.
The ISI used to train thousands of jihadists and send them across the border to India, but that was before 9/11. The truth was that after the ISI had bowed to American pressure, it reduced the number of terrorists it mass-trained and sent to India. But those terrorists were not going to stay home and read the Quran all day. They started blowing up bombs in Pakistan like people in America set off firecrackers on Fourth of July. The Pakistani terrorists, once disowned by the ISI, were partly funded by the Taliban and al-Qaeda, but the majority of the money came from Iran. The ISI had to keep a constant vigil on its people to see who received money from foreign sources.
His stint with the ISI later proved handy for Kassem because, as the intelligence chief, he needed to spy on his own people first.
As the chief, one of his main jobs was to collaborate with the CIA, to provide them with monthly reports and answer their never-ending queries. He took every email and fax from Langley seriously, as he knew how deep the CIA’s pockets were and how long its hands were.
He knew about Halim. In fact, he had met Halim a few times. Deep inside his heart, he had respect for Halim, and he knew that Halim was not called the Lion of Dubai for nothing. When he received the fax from Langley, telling him that they needed to know Halim’s whereabouts, it was no surprise to him. He had known this request would come sooner or later, so he had kept tabs on Halim. But the problem was that Halim had just disappeared from Dubai a month before the CIA fax appeared on his machine.
After receiving the fax, Kassem asked for all the manifests for the last three months from all airlines that flew in and out of all sixteen airports in the United Arab Emirates. Bundles of paper with details of who flew when, to where, came flooding in. Kassem and a few trusted officers started going through the manifests meticulously, working day and night, looking for Halim’s name or those of his five known aliases. Kassem’s wife started complaining about his long hours and stopped only when he threatened to severely beat her, like he had done three years back.
He found nothing in the manifests under Halim’s name. Kassem knew that didn’t mean Halim had not left the country.
A LARGE BLACK windowless van rolled toward a secret jail located just twenty miles west of Dubai, far away from Al Tower, on Al Etihad Street in Dubai, where the police and intelligence headquarters were housed. The van approached the security gate, which was made of thick black-painted iron bars. The gate started opening, making just enough space for the vehicle to pass through. It looked like the guard was expecting the van.
The vehicle proceeded along the cobblestoned road and soon came to a halt. Five guards in olive-green dress shirts, with sticks in their hands and pistols in their holsters, approached the van. The driver alighted and walked to the back of the vehicle and opened the door. Inside, eight men were sitting with their hands cuffed and legs shackled. All of them wore orange jumpsuits.
The guards escorted them inside the jail and guided them to their cells.
These were the men picked up by Kassem earlier in the day. He knew asking those bastards about Halim’s whereabouts was like asking al-Qaeda where they would explode the next bomb.
Kassem’s order was strict – no food or water to those men for two days, just to soften them up.
AFTER THOSE TWO days had passed, Kassem appeared in the jail with four strong-looking assistant policemen. They visited all eight cells, one by one, and broke the right thumbs of all the men without asking a single question.
Later in the day, Kassem and his men reappeared in front of the first of those cells. The accompanying jailor inserted the key in the lock and gave it a turn. Kassem grabbed the iron bar of the gate, pulling it open. He made eye contact with the jailor and jerked his head, indicating that the jailor should leave now, and the man immediately obliged.
Kassem entered the cell. It was barely eight by ten feet, with a bed covered with a threadb
are cotton sheet. The temperature was much cooler than outside. If the walls of the cell had ever been painted, it must have been decades back. The jailed man was about five feet six inches tall, had gray hair, and a round pot belly. The man stood up from his bed as soon as he saw Kassem enter.
Kassem stood in front of the jailed man and gave him a piercing look. Kassem did not move his eyes for a few seconds, and the imprisoned man took a few steps backward until his back was against the wall, his face ashen.
“How is your thumb?” Kassem asked. It sounded more like a joke.
“Okay,” said the abashed man, his voice hardly audible.
Kassem took two steps forward and asked angrily, “Are you a man or woman? I asked how your thumb is.”
“Okay,” repeated the man, this time a little louder, and he pressed his back against the wall.
“Let me see your thumb,” Kassem said. His four assistants moved closer, and now the five men were standing barely three feet away from the fearful man, who raised his hand. The thumb was swollen and red.
One of Kassem’s assistants grabbed it and gave it a turn.
“Ah…ah,” the man bellowed and writhed in pain. The echo of his cry could be heard. The assistant let the finger go. The jailed man bent a little and covered his painful thumb protectively with the other hand.
Kassem grabbed the man by his hair and straightened him up, “Now, tell me where Halim is, or we are going to break your remaining nine fingers, cut off your penis and feed it to eagles in the desert.” Kassem moved his head closer. “What’s it going to be?”
The man started crying like a baby and said, “I don’t know where Halim is. I haven’t seen him in a while…I am innocent.”
Kassem’s long experience with people told him that the man was truthful. But he gave instruction to his assistants to break the man’s other thumb anyway, which made him feel like he was the most powerful man on Earth.