by Jay Deb
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“In fact the fourteenth sura of the Koran says.”
“Okay Max,” Gayle interrupted. “I get it. The Koran never taught anyone to hate the Christians or anybody else. Now tell me about Regina? Have you talked to her since you left her in Dubai?”
“Yes, I have talked to her a few times. She’s fine. She’s taking some time off, just like me.”
“So you talked to her a few times?” She wore a smirk on her face.
Doerr pressed the beer bottle to his lips and nodded.
“Is she beautiful?” she asked.
“She is good-looking. I won’t say beautiful. You are beautiful.”
Gayle was about to say something, but the server came back with their food and started laying the plates on the table.
SENATOR BRUSHBACK AND Ross Calpone met at East Potomac Park, under the same oak tree where the senator had met Lazarus not too long ago. Both men wore black overcoats and large hats, though the temperature was in the mid-sixties. The garments were probably worn as a disguise.
Both men faced the water, and Ross Calpone spoke first. “So how do we take care of this?”
“There is no we here,” Brushback said. “You are going to take care of Lazarus and Samuel. We can’t have two loose cannons sitting in jail, ready to burst out anytime and spill our secrets.”
“Did you guys try convincing the president for a pardon?”
“We tried. But this president is stubborn. He has already agreed to informally recommend you for the deputy director post. We can’t pressure him for too many things. And also, the future is more important than the past. You have to take care of Lazarus and Samuel. You know what I mean, don’t you?”
Ross Calpone nodded and appreciated what the senator had done for him. If Brushback was not there for him, Ross would be working for the CIA with a meager salary and occupying a tiny cubicle at Langley. “Should I hire a mafia hitman,” Ross asked the senator. “Or send some of our agency soldiers for this job?”
“I leave that up to you. Make your decision. After all, you will be making very big choices very soon. But I will tell you one thing.” The senator paused.
“What is that?”
“Make it the same day.”
“Make what on the same day?” Ross asked.
“In our world we don’t spell out everything, Ross. We don’t say stuff that can get us into trouble, even if there is no recorder turned on. So I say one more time – make it the same day.” The senator turned and started walking away. “We talk with wink and clink. Get used to it.”
Bemused, Ross Calpone kept thinking what the senator meant. Within a minute, Ross figured it out.
He cursed himself. Why did he not understand it immediately after the senator had said it? Ross was mad at himself. How could he be so stupid? Maybe his dad had been right when he had called Ross ‘the dumb one’ repeatedly during his middle school years.
Ross wanted to apologize to the senator. But Brushback was gone. Ross ran to the parking area.
Both the senator and his black Lincoln sedan were gone.
Ross started walking back to his car.
Yes, Lazarus and Samuel had to be taken out the same day. Ross knew if one was killed before the other, the other might see what was coming and spill the beans. That could not be allowed.
Taking out both Lazarus and Samuel, who were in different jails, on the same day would be a little hard to do. But Ross knew exactly how to do it.
Epilogue
Doerr received an urgent message from Director Stonewall, asking him to come and see her at Langley immediately. At first, he was unwilling. After Gayle encouraged him to go, only then, he decided to head for Langley, grudgingly.
Stonewall greeted Doerr in her office. She wore a black pants suit and looked cheerful. Doerr knew that she was working twelve hours a day, six days a week, as she was yet to appoint a new deputy director after Lazarus had been relieved of his duties.
After pleasantries, she asked, “How is your shoulder, Max? Is the pain still there?”
“Pain is life,” Doerr said. “It is still there. But I’ve learned to live with it. My therapist says it may take another six months for the pain to go away completely. Doctor gave me pain meds. But most of the time I just ignore the ache.”
“Good. And how is Gayle doing?” Stonewall asked.
“She’s okay. She was rattled to see my injury at first. But she is okay now.”
“Excellent. You know both Lazarus and Samuel died in jail, attacked by fellow inmates,” Stonewall said. “It is sad, but maybe that’s what they deserved.”
“Yes. I heard about it,” Doerr said. “It is a little bit odd that the two died the same day and also at about the same time. Is the agency investigating the murders?”
“No, we are not. FBI is. We have better things to do, Max. Moreover, it is their jurisdiction.”
“Something tells me there is more to it.”
“Like what?”
“Like someone sitting behind, controlling things.”
“Do you have a name?” Stonewall asked.
“I just feel there is a controller out there, managing things. Lazarus mentioned Senator Brushback’s name. He said some senators gave him the money and covered for what he was doing.”
“Max, that is not possible. Both Lazarus and Samuel said repeatedly during the investigations that it was just the two of them who did all those bad things. And no one else was involved,” Stonewall said smilingly. “I think you are little bit paranoid. And I can’t blame you. Sometimes it happens when you go through a great personal loss.”
Doerr knew there was a force behind what Samuel and Lazarus did. But he could not prove it. He didn’t have a lead. So he let it go.
“Have you decided who our next deputy director of operations will be?” Doerr asked.
“Yes. I am almost decided that Ross Calpone is going to be the next deputy.”
Doerr was surprised. He had worked with Calpone some time back, and he did not like Calpone one bit. Doerr felt Ross Calpone was inept and sometimes downright lazy. “Do you think he is the right person to lead operations?”
“No, I don’t. But more than half of the Senate Intelligence Committee members favor him. And tens of congressmen from both parties have called me and urged me to choose Ross Calpone for the post. And recently even the White House has expressed their preference for him.”
“But isn’t it completely your choice as to who the next deputy director will be?”
“Yes, it is. But you know how it is in Washington. You can have a couple of foes, but you don’t want half the town to be your enemy.”
“I feel some of America’s worst enemies are living right here in Washington,” said Doerr.
“You’re probably right. But maybe there is something in Ross Calpone that I don’t understand. I hope I will find out soon. Now let’s talk about some work, shall we?”
Doerr hated Washington politics. It was the reason why he had left the CIA years back. He was willing to talk about work rather than the bickering among the politicians.
“Okay,” he said.
“Good.” Stonewall lifted a manila folder from the table and handed it to Doerr. “Read this and then tell me if you want to take up this job.”
Doerr took the file, looked at it and looked back at Stonewall’s expressionless face.
He opened the file and started reading.
Thanks to the secrets spilled by Faizan Al-Sourie and the good work of Max Doerr and Regina Rosania, the CIA could observe Abu Halim’s actions up close. Abu Halim’s hiring activity increased recently, and he was sending terrorist trainees in droves to Somalia and Syria. The CIA had never actually been able to locate Abu Halim in real time until about two weeks ago. The agency had a lucky break. Abu Halim was located near Galcaio, in the Gudug region of Somalia. He was hunkered down in a house with several associates. An hour and thirty-three minutes after the sighting, a missile
from a CIA drone was fired at the house, killing Abu Halim instantly.
Latest communications suggest that Abu Halim’s brother, Raafiq Halim, has taken over Abu Halim’s organization, and he is trying to hire new trainees. The agency leadership is very worried and would like to see Raafiq Halim assassinated quietly as soon as possible before he becomes a problem like Abu Halim. They also think that the only person, who could do this without creating a problem, is Max Doerr, the assassin.
Doerr raised his face. Stonewall was waiting for an answer.
“So if I decide to work,” said Doerr, “I will have to report to Ross Calpone?”
“No. You will work directly for me.”
“I will discuss it with my family and get back to you soon,” Doerr said and rose to leave.
He walked out of Stonewall’s office and sauntered through the hallway. He saw the old office where Lazarus used to sit. The memories of the archaic operations crowded his mind. He was livid that another inept person would be occupying that office soon.
As Doerr trudged out of the building and walked to the parking lot, he considered the work Stonewall had offered. He was familiar with the revulsion of death, but he knew some deaths, like Raafiq’s, were a necessity. As he opened the door of his vehicle, he made the decision.
He turned the ignition on, called Gayle from his cell phone and said, “I have to leave for Dubai in a few days. I have a job to do that should take no more than a week or two. And this time, please come with me.”
“I would love to come with you,” Gayle said. “But I have to get some time off from my work first.”
THE END
About the author
Reading and writing has always been his passion, though he is a software developer by profession. He holds an undergraduate degree in Physics and a graduate degree in Computer Science.
He lives in New Jersey with his wife and son.
Connect with the author at facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJayDeb
Other books by the author: THE SCIENTIST (Max Doerr Book 2) (US Link) (UK Link)
CONTRIVED (US Link) (UK Link)
If you liked this book, please leave a review comment at amazon.com here(US link) or here(UK link).
Acknowledgments: I am grateful to my family for support in writing and all those hours they leave me with my characters. I am thankful to those friends who gave me encouragement to write, too many to mention here. I thank Pauline Nolet for editing this book.
An Excerpt from THE SCIENTIST
Prologue Nevada, USA
A feeble metallic noise came from the iron bars of his prison cell, which sounded more like a song to sixty-two-year-old Jon Janco, a former nuclear scientist serving a thirty-year sentence for selling nuclear secrets to a foreign government. Janco sat up on his bed and looked at the two masked men standing right outside his cell just like they had promised.
Janco thought the men were like two tires of a bicycle, representing hope, about to carry him into freedom, far away from the jail life he’d been living for the last two years and three months.
“Get some good sleep before the big day,” the guys had told him last night, and Janco had tried but to no avail. Was it the tension or was it the hope of breathing fresh morning air after rotting in the slammer for so long?
He could not tell, and it didn’t matter now.
Janco saw the short man insert an iron wire into the lock. Holding his breath, Janco watched, and a minute later, the lock clicked open.
It is happening. Janco felt exulted.
David Taylor, the short guy, opened the door slowly, without making any noise, and Roger Gibbs, the tall man, entered Janco’s cell and set his foot on the cold, cracked concrete floor.
“You ready?” Gibbs asked Janco.
Janco nodded.
Taylor handed Janco a black pantyhose. “Put this on and let’s move.”
Janco put the pantyhose over his head like an obedient servant.
“Now come,” Taylor said and stepped out of the cell.
Janco and Gibbs followed Taylor. Janco turned his head to take one last peek at his dilapidated cell, and then he started stepping into the hallway with the two men, passing by the cells where inmates were sound asleep. Only a few lightbulbs were turned on, throwing just enough light to see things, a perfect condition for a jail escape.
Following the two men, Janco took a right turn and froze; he could see a guard dozing on a chair at the main gate. Gibbs and Taylor had told Janco last night, “No security guy will be there, and the door will be unlocked.”
Instinctively, all three men stepped to the side wall and pressed their backs against it; the pillar in the front protected them from any look the guard might take.
“He wasn’t supposed to be there,” Taylor, the short man, whispered.
“Not sure what happened,” Gibbs said, shaking his head. “I was told all of them had been paid off.”
Now Janco regretted agreeing with these two men for an escape when they had approached him a few weeks back. “We have been sent by Iran,” the tall man had said.
Janco had doubts. The two men appeared to be Caucasians, but then some Iranians did look like Caucasians, and it had been a worthy shot to avoid twenty-eight more years in the penitentiary.
Janco knew he would certainly die in prison someday if he stayed.
Now, with a hindrance right at the first step of the rendezvous, Janco was having second thoughts.
“Should I go back to my cell?” Janco asked Gibbs.
“Are you crazy?” Gibbs said dismissively. “Too late for that.”
After a few moments of silence, feeling frustrated, Janco said, “Maybe you didn’t pay enough bribe.”
“Shut up,” Gibbs said and turned to Taylor.
“There is an alternate route, but” – Gibbs jerked his head toward Janco – “I don’t think that ass can climb the fence.”
Trying to glance at the guard, Taylor poked his head out and then said to Gibbs, “I think he’s just sleeping. Maybe we can pass by.”
“You think so?” Gibbs stuck his head out and tried to look at the guard. “You may be right. It’s worth a shot. We have to make it today; otherwise all the planning goes astray.”
“Right,” said Taylor.
Gibbs started rushing toward the main door of the jail and made a hand gesture for Janco and Taylor to follow him. Three masked men marched toward the gate. As they got closer, it was apparent that the guard was sleeping, his sleepy head tilted to the right.
“He’s snoring,” Taylor said, standing about ten feet from the guard.
“Let’s go,” Gibbs said and walked up to the gate that was made of thick iron plates and tried to open it. He shook his head; the gate was locked.
Janco knew after crossing through this door they would have to trot across the yard and face another gate, a taller and wider one. If they could get through that one, only then could Janco breathe free air, a big if now. Janco understood someone had paid off the jail officials to lock all the inmates except the three, leave the two main doors open, and then depart.
But apparently something had gone wrong.
Someone didn’t do his job, or someone wasn’t paid enough.
“Now what?” Taylor barked at Gibbs.
“Give me those keys.” Gibbs pointed at the guard, a thirty-plus man with a large bald head. A bunch of keys attached to a ring hung from the chair’s handle.
Taylor approached the man, who was still snoring. Taylor picked up the keys and gently threw them to Gibbs. Gibbs caught the bunch and inserted one key into the lock. The door didn’t budge, so Gibbs tried a few more keys.
Suddenly the man opened his eyes, stood up and screamed, “Stop.”
The ongoing noise must have woken him up.
Janco watched the guard unhook his holster, about to take out his gun. Taylor lunged at the man, and the gun dropped to the floor. Taylor grabbed the guard’s neck with his muscled hands and held him in a choke hold. The
man tried to free himself, but his efforts were proving futile. Taylor held his arms tighter and looked at Gibbs for confirmation of something.
Gibbs nodded.
Taylor twisted the guard’s neck with great force, and soon the hapless man’s body dropped to the floor, and it appeared the guard was dead.
Janco had heard about many murders from other inmates. Some had given him graphic details of how they had done it, to which Janco had listened with feigned interest. But he had never thought he would watch a killing.
“C’mon.” Gibbs tried a few more keys in the lock and wiggled them. Finally, one key turned all the way.
Janco could hear some inmates shouting, kicking on their cells’ doors, perhaps woken by the cacophony of beating the guard.
“Let’s go,” Taylor said and started moving. Janco followed.
Gibbs shook his head and mumbled, “They made a screwed-up plan.”
Janco wondered who exactly were they? But the thought vanished as the alarms started blaring and the lights flashed everywhere around.
Gibbs crossed the door and started running across the yard where Janco had played basketball many times. Gibbs screamed, “Come on, Jon. We have less than five minutes before they come grab us.”
As Janco ran, he felt weakness in his legs. He was five feet eight inches tall and weighed one hundred and forty-five pounds after losing twenty pounds in the last three years.
Gibbs stopped at the main gate, tried a few keys, and the door opened like a faithful dog.
Janco stepped out of the jail for the first time, and as he felt the air of freedom, strength returned to his feet.