The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) (16 page)

“But
how is he going to get there?” Ahmad asked, pointing his hand at Faizan. “His
student visa was just rejected. Now he won’t even get a tourist visa.”

“I
have already made plans as to how he can get there. I have some contacts with
the Mexican cartels. They have assured me they can take Faizan across the
border and drop him with a friend of mine in Augusta, Georgia. My friend is
well settled there.” Halim turned to Faizan. “He will help you for a few days,
but he won’t know your real purpose of visiting. He will think you are visiting
the university for a project. After that, you will head for Washington, the
center of all evildoers. But you will be alone, all by yourself. You will have
some help from a man who goes by the name Sigma. I hear he is a CIA turncoat.
But his help will be very limited. Most of the work you will have to do
yourself. You think you can do it?”

Faizan
pounded his fist on the center of the table, and the table vibrated. He rose
and said, “Yes, I am ready to carry out Allah’s wish.” 

“Very
good, son. Now sit down and listen.” Halim opened a manila folder and took out a
few pieces of paper. He gave some to Ahmad and some to Faizan. “Faizan, you
will be headed for Mexico City in two days. Now, let’s talk about the details
of everything that will happen.”

Regina
Rosania had been approached by the CIA after she had finished her incarceration
in Italy for killing her stepfather, who had abused her both mentally and
physically. She’d had a dream of becoming a model in Paris, but that had never
become a reality. Her spy work had kept her busy twenty-four seven, and at
Langley the beautiful twenty-nine-year-old woman had been recognized as the
best foreign-born operative. 

“Your
next target will be Raafiq,” said Andy, Rosania’s boss, who had recruited her
seven years back. “He is the brother of Abu Halim. Raafiq controls his family
business from Paris. He raises money for terrorists. And one of the ways he
raises money is by trading stolen paintings.”

“But
didn’t you just say he has a big business?” Rosania cast a frown, swinging the
leather chair in the safe house in Montreuil, located a few kilometers from
Paris. “Why would he need to trade paintings to make money?”

“Okay,
Raafiq is one weird man.” Andy lit a cigarette and offered one to Rosania. “He
had a childhood ambition of becoming a painter. He moved to Paris years back,
against his family’s wishes, hoping to become a famous painter. But his dream
never came true. Then he moved into buying paintings, and soon he started buying
and selling stolen paintings.”

“Interesting.”
Rosania took a deep drag from her cigarette. “So I have to get rid of him?”

“Yes,
but ‘get rid of him’ in this case doesn’t mean we have to kill the man. We have
to find something bad, like drugs or stolen paintings, in his apartment and
leak the info to the police. They should take care of the rest.”

“So
how much time do I have to
get rid of him
?” Rosania asked as she rubbed
the butt of her cigarette in the glass ashtray.

“That’s
the other thing,” Andy said, looking straight into her eyes. “We have to take
care of this Raafiq business in just a couple of days.”

“Are
you kidding me?” Rosania sat up straight in her chair. “A couple of days?”

“I
know, I know.” Andy stood up, took a few steps toward the small window and then
turned back to face Regina. “The thing is, CIA is closing in on Abu Halim. They
want to take Raafiq off the street. As soon as Raafiq is taken care of, Director
Stonewall wants you to head for Dubai. One of our best guys is already there,
leading an effort to capture or kill Halim.”

Rosania
stood up and faced Andy. “Work to me is religion. I always do my best. But I
don’t want to promise something that I may not be able to deliver. I can go to
Dubai today if you want, but I may not be able to take care of Raafiq in just a
few days. But I will try.”

“I
have full confidence in you,” Andy said. “I myself will drive you around, and I
will be available in case you need something from me. Stonewall wants Halim and
his brother to be taken care of as soon as possible. She says the president is
asking for daily updates on this.”

ANDY
DROPPED ROSANIA at the bar in downtown Paris that Raafiq frequented. She walked
inside the bar, wearing a black leather miniskirt and a skin-tight top. Once
inside and seated, she took slow sips from a bottle of Carlsberg beer, her eyes
scanning each person in the bar. It was eight p.m. The bar was not full yet;
there were about thirty or forty customers who were drinking alcohol and
watching the soccer game being shown on the large TV. As a player scored a goal
and the customers roared in joy, her sharp eyes spotted Raafiq, who was sitting
at a table in the corner all by himself, drinking red wine. The man was clean
shaven, his hair curly, and he looked more like a white man than an Asian. His
chin was long compared to the size of his head, and he had a prominent Adam’s
apple that could be spotted from miles away.

Rosania
threw him looks while sipping from her bottle. Raafiq noticed her. He grabbed
his wine glass, walked over to her table, and introduced himself. “Hi, I’m
Raafiq.”

She
looked at him, took the last sip of her beer, and placed the empty beer bottle
at the center of the small wooden table. “I’m Rosania.” She made a face that
told Raafiq that she was not too excited that he had come to her table, but for
now she was going to tolerate him. She watched Raafiq take a seat.

Raafiq
waved to a bartender, and the bartender came immediately. “My lady needs a
drink.”

Raafiq
turned to Rosania and asked. “What would you like to have tonight?”

“I
would like to have a lot of things,” Rosania said, cocking her head. “But for
now I need a glass of red Bordeaux.”

Raafiq
nodded to the
bartender,
who left and came back within a minute with a glass of red wine and placed it
on the table. Raafiq paid the tab with a ten-euro note.

“What
else do you want?” Raafiq turned to Rosania.

“Tell
me who you are.” Rosania thought she already knew too much about him. But this
was a game that she had to play. “What do you do? Where are you from?”

“But
before that, why don’t you say something about yourself first?” Raafiq lifted
his glass to his mouth and took a quick glance at the TV, which pretty much
everyone else in the bar was looking at as they were showing a critical soccer league
game.

“Okay,”
she said. “I wanted to be a model in Paris, but it’s so hard to break through.”
That was not far from the truth. “It’s like all the good-looking girls of the
world are here already. And I’m ready to give up unless I get a break.”

Raafiq
eyed her like a hyena looking at a dead deer. “I can give you a chance. I’m a
painter.”

Rosania
straightened her face and tried her best to look surprised and hopeful at the
same time. “Are you? Will you make me a model?” She knew he was a fake painter
and was lying, but then she was too. She put on a bright smile.

“Of
course I will. But before that,” Raafiq got off his chair and pulled it up
close to her, “tell me more about yourself. Where are you from?”

“I’m
from Italy. I grew up in Rome. My parents wanted me to be a doctor, but instead
I went to the University of Rome to study the arts.” Even she was surprised by
how easy it was to tell those lies. Earlier during the day, she had rehearsed
all that. “I studied literature and poetry. After finishing my course, I wanted
to be a model. I did some photo shoots in Rome but wasn’t paid much. Then I
thought why not go to
the
place – Paris. Don’t you think I’m bold?”

“You
are. Who said you aren’t?” Raafiq nodded. “And you are beautiful, too. How did
you come to Paris? Did someone help you out?”

“Yes,
my uncle Andy.” She gave him the name of her mentor at the CIA. “He helped me
out. I’m actually living at his place till I make some good money and get a
place of my own.”

“What
does your uncle do?” Raafiq asked.

“He’s
a magazine reviewer. Wait – I’m not really sure. He might have switched his
line of work. Now it’s your turn,” Rosania said. “Tell me where you are from
and how did you get here.”

Raafiq
spoke for the next few minutes. Rosania knew that most of what he said was
untrue. He said he had been born in France, but she knew he had actually been
born in Dubai. He said he graduated from Paris Dauphine University, and
although she knew he had a college degree, it was from Alfaisal University in
Riyadh. He said he was a student of Corinne Tounsi, the painter. Rosania knew
that was not true, either.

“I
paint,” Raafiq said. “And I could use some help.” 

“You
paint what? I mean water or oil?”

“Oil
mostly. Van Gogh is my favorite, but I want to paint like Picasso.” 

“Why
is that?”

“Because
I think Picasso brought out the best in humans, especially the women. My
paintings will be much better if I could use a model like you.” 

“Why
can’t you get one? After all, this is Paris, and you seem to have plenty of
cash.” She waited for an answer. 

“I
don’t know.” Raafiq looked at the door. More drinkers were coming in. The bar
was getting crowded. “I could never find a girl I like. Maybe it’s a curse.”

She
knew it was all a lie, too. According to the dossier on Raafiq, he changed
girls every other month, if not every other week, and he didn’t use them just
as models. Rosania posed an innocent face and said, “Maybe I’m not as good as
you think.” 

“I’m
sure you are good.” He rested his left palm on her shoulder and stroked her
cheek once. “Why don’t we go to my flat and find out. It’s right around the
corner from here.” 

She
knew even that was a lie. Raafiq’s flat was at least a kilometer away. “Are we
still talking about painting and modeling or something else? It’s close to
midnight.” She pointed to her watch. 

“Of
course I’m talking about painting.” He bit his lower lip and chuckled. “Artists
are timeless. I can speak about painting the whole night. In fact, we can go to
your place if you want.” 

“My
place won’t do. My uncle does not like strangers, let alone handsome young men
like you.” 

He
smiled, obviously delighted by the flattery. “That’s a problem.” He had his
eyes fixed on hers. “What do we do now?”

“Nothing,”
she said and rose from her chair. She extended her hand for a shake. “I should
be going. My uncle must be getting anxious. Why don’t we meet tomorrow, right
here, at ten?”  

Raafiq
took her hand and held it between his hands. “All right. See you
tomorrow.” 

Rosania
proceeded to the door. A few drunken heads turned to watch her walk away; she
was used to that, and she advanced without looking back. She knew Raafiq’s gaze
was attached to her rear end.

She
walked through the door into the semi-darkness, and a blast of chilly air hit
her in the face. She took her cell phone out from her purse and then dialed a
preprogrammed number and whispered, “I’m out.”

She
continued to trudge along the damp concrete sidewalk. She could see a man
walking two or three hundred feet away. His gait told her that the man had more
than enough to drink and was headed back to his wife or a whore. France
occupied one of the top spots on the per capita alcohol consumption list, way
above Italy or America, and just a shade below the king – Russia.

At
the next junction, Rosania turned right. A black-tinted sedan was waiting. As
she neared, the driver turned the ignition on. Rosania got in and immediately
lit a cigarette. 

“How
did it go?” Andy, the driver, asked. The car started moving slowly.

“Okay.”
She released clouds of tar smoke. “I like to paint like Picasso,” she said
mockingly. “Picasso, my ass.” She jerked the cigarette butt, and the ash fell in
the tiny ashtray. “Raafiq is a loser.”

AFTER
ROSANIA LEFT, Raafiq stood up and walked to the empty table at the center and
ordered a large glass of wine. He looked around for a single woman and located
one, a blonde who looked to be in her mid-thirties. He stood up from his chair,
heading for that woman’s table. As he took his first step, a man appeared at her
side and sat next to her. The man was over six feet tall, and his bicep muscles
were the size of tree trunks.

Raafiq
sank back into his chair and ordered a double shot of Chivas Regal whisky. The
bartender brought his liquor. Before he could enjoy the drink, he received a
phone call.

“She
is a mole,” the voice at the other end said.

“Who?
The girl sitting in front of me?”

“No,
the woman who you talked to for hours.”

“Oh,
that girl. She will be a good fuck.”

“It
will be a good fuck for her. She will fuck you. Now get the hell out.”

“Come
on, man, she is just a woman. What can she do to me?”

“Don’t
take her so lightly,” the voice said. “There are rumors that she is directly
working for the CIA. The CIA – the silent killer.”

“Don’t
be so afraid. When she comes to my flat, I will be awake and watching her
hands. I can take care of her.”

“Listen,
boss, we will be close by, and I will also give you a pistol for you to carry.”

“Okay,”
said Raafiq, sighing. “But all that is not really necessary.”

THE
FOLLOWING DAY, Andy dropped Rosania at the same bar. It was a few minutes to
ten p.m.; people were coming in to get drunk, the bouncers looking busier than
the day before. The bartenders were frantically taking orders and delivering
drinks to their customers. It was a Friday, and the whole of Paris seemed to be
warming to a drunken weekend.

Rosania
slowly walked to the center of the bar and found Raafiq there. The
son-of-a-bitch was settled with his glass of red wine. She wished the man would
vanish or simply drop dead.

But
neither of those things happened, and Raafiq smiled when he saw Rosania
approaching. She had to face him. She showed him an index finger, indicating
she would be back soon, and headed for the bathroom.