The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) (17 page)

She
straightened her clothes, put on a fresh layer of lipstick, and gathered up
enough strength to face Raafiq.

“How
long have you been waiting?” She forced out a smile.

“I
came here at eight.” He lifted the glass to his lips and took a small sip. He
waved to the bartender, who came promptly and took her order.

“How
come you were so early?” Rosania asked.

“I
was hoping you would be too.” He smiled and sat up. “And we could spend more
time getting to know each other.”

Rosania
had to give it to him, he was charming.

“How
is your uncle?” Raafiq asked.

“What?”

“Your
uncle. How is he?”

“Oh.”
Rosania was caught off guard. “He’s fine.”

The
bartender brought her wine.

“Uh-huh,”
he said and threw a piercing look at her. She wondered how much he knew about
her. She was told Raafiq was being followed and his calls monitored, and she
would be informed anytime something significant happened. But just months
before, her trainer had said, “When you are on a job, be alert and never relax.
You have only one protector – yourself.” 

She
knew that she was dealing with a dangerous man, and her life was in danger
every minute she spent with him.

In
the bar, an hour passed by easily. She was working on her second glass of wine,
and Raafiq had downed two glasses of Chardonnay and a shot of whisky. His eyes
were red from drinking and smoking. 

“I
have paintings worth five million bucks in my flat,” Raafiq said in a drunken
voice.

Her
eyes popped. “You must have a lot of money. Where do you keep it? I mean, which
bank?” She instantly knew that was a bad question to ask. It was not a piece of
information he was likely to give up easily. Finding the terrorist money trail
was one of the top goals for the agency. 

Raafiq
moved his fingers, asking her to come closer, and she complied. She leaned
forward and turned her face to put her ear close to his mouth, and then it
happened. Her glass toppled, and her leather skirt got wet. Instinctively she
stood up.

“I’m
so sorry,” he said and stood up.

She
looked at her ruined clothes and rushed to the bathroom. As soon as she reached
the bathroom door, she realized she had left her purse on the table. She ran
back and was relieved to see the leather bag undisturbed. She glanced at
Raafiq, looking for a hint as to whether he had searched her purse. But the
man’s face was emotionless like a stone.

She
took her purse and headed back to the bathroom. She cleaned up the wine as much
as she could. But it was hard to return the wet leather to its shine.

Fuck,
if you don’t want to tell me the bank name, just say so. God! Don’t fucking
ruin my expensive leather skirt.

She
opened her leather purse. There was no sign of invasion. Under the real
lipstick case, the fake one with a built-in camera lay there. A Swiss knife and
pepper spray lay under carefully placed receipts. She opened the first chamber.
Inside there was a needle, a syringe, a plunger, and a small pouch with the
crushed tranquilizer.

She
had practiced twice that morning how to put ten milliliters of the liquid and
the powder into the syringe, and then plunge it into a pillow – all with just
one hand.

She
closed her purse and walked back to her table.

Raafiq
apologized again and asked her if she would like to visit his flat.

She
thought for a moment. She wanted to finish the work as well. “Okay, let’s go,”
she said. 

RAAFIQ
ROSE, AND she followed him from the bar. They came out of the building together
and stood on the cobblestoned curbside. Traffic was almost nonexistent. She
checked her watch – it was twenty minutes past midnight.

A
yellow cab came from nowhere and screeched to a halt at Raafiq’s feet. Without
saying anything, Raafiq opened the rear door and got in. As he entered the cab,
his white T-shirt moved up a few inches, and she saw it. The pistol was tucked into
the waistband of his jeans. She felt a shiver up her legs, the legs that were
already moving inside the cab.
You are your only protector.

The
cab took barely five minutes to reach his flat. Raafiq threw a few euros at the
young cabbie.

The
building was seven or eight stories high. The next building was taller, maybe
twenty stories.

Raafiq
opened the iron-gate and held it open for Rosania. Her scarf ruffled in the
air, and the late night chill brought shivers back to her body. 

Thoughts
of death crossed her mind. She now regretted not bringing her Sig Sauer P228, a
gun perfect for hiding in a purse. But she could not turn back now.

Raafiq
skipped the elevator and headed for the stairs. While climbing, he lit another
cigarette.

As
he walked up, she followed and tried to spot his gun. It was hidden by his
shirt, but now that she knew it was there, she could still see the outline through
his clothes.

They
ascended two flights of stairs to his door, right next to the stairwell. Inside
the living room, there were four painting stands, one in front of the kitchen,
one next to the sofa, and two more in the corners of the living room.

“Settle
down.” He smiled, pointed to the sofa and went inside. He came back two minutes
later wearing shorts and a blue sleeveless T-shirt.

“Wine?”
he asked.

“No,
I’m fine.” She was feeling tired, and more than that, she was tense. She felt
just a tad relaxed as the gun certainly wasn’t with him anymore. “I had too
much to drink already.”

Raafiq
came back with a large glass of wine and a cigarette blazing between his lips.
The man would certainly die from lung cancer or a failing liver, she was sure,
if his enemies didn’t kill him sooner.

“Where
are the five million dollars’ worth of paintings?” she asked.

“I
will show you. Let me finish my drink first.” Raafiq sat close to her.

Raafiq
stroked her shoulders a few times. She just sat there, watching every corner of
the living area, taking in mental images. In one corner, a bunch of
paintbrushes lay strewn. In another, there were four small bottles of oil
paints.

After
taking the last sip of his wine, he pointed to the bedroom and said, “Come
inside.”

Rosania
rose, the man must have hung the expensive paintings inside the bedroom. It was
one a.m. already, but she wanted to finish the job and not have to come back
another day.

She
entered the bedroom. The walls were covered with paintings, hardly any empty
space left visible on the wall. Some looked classy, some cheap. 

He
sat on the bed. “Why don’t you sit here?” He pointed to the space next to him.

Rosania
sat down and asked, “All these paintings are worth five million in total?” She
knew trading stolen paintings was another trade Raafiq was engaged in.

“More
than that. But most are worth nothing. Look at this one.” Raafiq rose and
pointed to a portrait of a woman standing next to a tree. “This is worth more
than six hundred thousand euros. It was originally painted by a famous Dutch
painter and has changed hands many times before falling into mine.”

“Wasn’t
that reported stolen?”

Raafiq
nodded and smiled at the same time. “And look at this one.” He pointed to
another oil painting, where a man was kissing a woman and a child looked on. “I
got it for a quarter of a million, but it will easily sell for a half mil now.”

“Do
you consider yourself more of an art dealer than a painter?” Rosania asked.
A
thief is really a more appropriate word to describe you
.

“I
am both.” Raafiq came within inches of her and brushed her cheek with his
fingers. “But painting is what I love. My work never reached the exhibitions.
But that might change, if you become my model.”

Rosania
felt uncomfortable with the way he said ‘my model.’ It sounded more like ‘my
whore.’ She said nothing, looked at the floor, and swung her legs back and
forth. 

“Will
you become my model?” Raafiq put his arms around her, pressed his body against her
chest and kissed her on the cheek.

“Yes,”
she said.

Raafiq
continued kissing her. He moved to her forehead, neck, cheek and then her lips.
As Raafiq pressed his lips against hers, a feeling of revulsion started growing
inside her. She had to push him away as he started penetrating her mouth with
his tongue.

Raafiq
was all smiles. He stood up. “Let me take a shower, and then we will do some
work tonight. Agreed?”

“Okay.”
Rosania felt happy at last as she saw Raafiq leave the room. It was like a big
weight off her back. She had been watching and following Raafiq’s orders so
far, and now it was time for her to act.

She
waited till she heard the noise of the water gushing through the pipes. She
rose and began her work. She had to find his bank statement or something that
would tell her the source of his money.

Next
to the bed, there was a plastic drawer with three compartments. She started
with those. The first one had some receipts, a Rubik’s Cube and some glass
balls. The second one was full of dried brushes, and in the bottom drawer, she
found a plastic Ziploc pouch with white powder inside. She had no doubt about
what that white powder was. Despite liberal French drug laws, that kind of
volume would certainly put Raafiq in the slam for a few years. The third drawer
was empty.

Nothing
else interested her in the bedroom. She took a tiny device out of her purse and
quickly stuck it behind the base of a phone that hung from the wall. It was a
bug that would stick to any piece of iron, and its signals could be picked up
by a receiver two hundred meters away. Her co-workers would just have to be
within a short distance to listen to Raafiq’s conversations.

She
moved to the living room and checked out the drawers of the coffee table, and
then sifted through the books and magazines in the bookcase. Nothing of
importance.

Get
real, girl, who keeps their bank statements in the living room.

She
went to the kitchen, skipped the drawers, and opened the first of the three
cupboards – a few spice boxes lay there. She moved on to the next one and saw
some stacked papers. She felt overjoyed, thinking she found what she was
looking for.

But
her enthusiasm dissipated immediately as she heard the bathroom door crack
open. She turned around and saw Raafiq standing there, a white towel wrapped
around his waist, a few beads of water still on his forehead, his hair looking
wet.

“What
are you doing there?” he asked with a suspicious look.

“I’m
looking for a drink. My throat is dry, like a piece of wood,” she quipped. “And
you have been so rude; you haven’t even offered me a drink.”

“Actually
I did, you refused.” Raafiq came close. His whole body was freckled with brown
dots. Even after the bath, he smelled of tobacco. He grabbed her face and gave
it a shake. “What do you want? Wine? Whisky?”

“Do
you have any rum? You see, as the night gets darker, I like stronger drink.” She
gave his ass a slap.

“You
naughty girl. Of course I do. I keep everything here. Go back to bedroom. I
will get your rum.”

She
went back to the bedroom, sat on the bed, and patiently waited. Raafiq walked
in after a minute, with two glasses in his hand. The towel was gone, and he was
now wearing a tiny pair of European-style shorts, and he was naked from the
waist up. His Adam’s apple looked bigger than before.

She
took her glass and started drinking, pretending to enjoy it.

Raafiq
sat next to her and started kissing her; his hands moved across her body, and
she let him do it – she had to. She placed her glass on the corner table, right
next to her purse.

Raafiq
placed his glass on the floor and then gently laid her on the bed. He took her
scarf off, then her top, and then her bra. He kissed her nipple.

She
closed her eyes and lay still as Raafiq slowly unzipped her skirt and pulled it
down. She felt something was stuck in her throat when he took her panties off,
leaving her naked on the edge of the bed. She felt as if her heart was being
crushed and her lungs had been run over by a hundred-ton truck.

Raafiq
mounted her, and soon the back and forth motion started.

A
few minutes later, Raafiq slid off her, and Rosania pushed him away and sat up.
She glanced at Raafiq, who was almost dozing, picked up her clothes, purse, and
Raafiq’s drink and headed for the bathroom. She cleaned herself and then took out
the pouch from her purse and poured the tranquilizer in Raafiq’s drink. She
watched the powder mix in the drink without any shaking, and it didn’t even
leave a residue. She checked herself in the mirror and then headed back to the
bedroom. 

He
was still lying on the bed, his eyes looked tired, and he was still naked.