The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) (33 page)

Later,
they were at Los Angeles International Airport. The car stopped at the
international terminal. Gibbs and Taylor alighted, and Janco understood he had
to get out as well. Gibbs moved behind the car and took the suitcase out of the
trunk. Without saying anything to the woman, Gibbs proceeded to the terminal’s
gate. Janco watched the car moving away slowly, and the woman disappeared into
oblivion.

When
Janco turned his face to the terminal door, he saw Gibbs standing there with an
irritated face and gave him the
come on
look. Taylor was gone.

As
he stepped inside the terminal, Janco saw a police officer staring at him. He
got a shiver down his leg but then realized the cop might not be looking for
him. Janco followed Gibbs inside the terminal, passing the airline check-in
counters and the passengers standing in the queue. It was a new scene for
Janco, all the people, the polished floor, the TVs and the monitors all around
– in the last two years he had seen something like this only on that CRT TV he
was allowed to watch for an hour a day in the prison.

As
Janco walked through the concourse, he saw the phones hanging on the cradles.
His heart ached to make a call to Mark, his elder son, who was the only person
who had kept any contact with him since his incarceration.

But
he knew better. The Feds might be talking to him, and a trap might have been
set already. He decided to call his son after reaching Italy.

“Take
this,” Gibbs stuffed a hundred-dollar bill into Janco’s shirt pocket. “Buy what
you like, but make it quick.”

Janco
knew that he was leaving America, maybe for good, and Gibbs had realized Janco
might want to take some American keepsake with him.
Gibbs isn’t that bad a
man
, Janco thought. Maybe Gibbs had been under stress, and that was why
he’d been so rude.

With
the money in his pocket, Janco looked around. There was a chocolate shop, an
alcohol store, a few fast food and coffee stalls. Janco entered a shop that
displayed a number of newspapers and magazines.

He
bought two newspapers, a copy of
Time
magazine and a large pack of
M&M candy. He put the ninety-two dollars and forty-seven cents, returned by
the clerk, in his pocket. As soon as Janco came out of the shop, Gibbs started
walking, pulling his black carry-on suitcase.

A
few minutes later, Janco saw Taylor waiting near a Starbucks, a bunch of papers
in his hand, which he handed to Gibbs.

Janco
smelled the aroma of coffee beans that smelled like the fragrance of freedom to
him.

Gibbs
checked the papers quickly and handed a passport to Janco, a piece of paper
tucked inside the passport. Janco took it out and recognized it was an
itinerary.

“The
ticket says the destination is Milan,” Janco said to Gibbs.

“We
fly to Milan. Then someone will pick us up and drive us to our final
destination,” Gibbs said tersely.

“Will
you be driving?”

“Stop
asking stupid questions.”

Janco
noticed Taylor was gone.

Later,
Janco stood in front of the airline counter, holding the American passport –
name: Jonathan Smolder, Janco’s fraudulent name. He tried to memorize it.
The passport appeared as good as an original. Janco knew he was in good hands,
if only he knew who exactly they were.

Maybe
time would answer all his questions, so he patiently waited in the line that
led to the airline check-in counter.

A
few minutes later, he handed his passport to the lady at the counter and put on
a smile just like the one in the picture on his passport. She flipped
through a few pages, looked at the photo in the passport, and then at Janco.
Apparently satisfied, she typed something into the keyboard.

The
good thing about American immigration was that while going out of the country
one didn’t have to be confronted by an unfriendly immigration officer, unlike
in other countries. Janco knew that the airline employee wasn’t going to ask a
whole bunch of questions unless there was a big red line dangling over his name
on the monitor.

“Aisle
seat?” the lady clerk asked. 

He
didn’t care; seat selection was the last thing on his mind. The first, second
and third thing on his mind was how to get the hell out of America. He
would sit on the roof if no seats were available.

“Yes,
please,” he said politely. 

The
lady again typed something into the keyboard, and then his boarding pass came out
of the noisy printer. Janco took it and stepped to the side, waiting for Gibbs
to finish his check-in.

Soon,
Janco and Gibbs were heading for the security gate, their plane about to take
off in thirty-five minutes.

On
the way, he saw Taylor waiting near a pillar. Janco could see Gibbs and Taylor
exchanging winks and nods, a sign indicating that everything was going okay and
as planned.

But
will everything be okay for me?
Janco wondered.

WHEN
THE BOEING 777 took off into the air, it was about eight p.m. Janco watched the
streetlights disappear as the aircraft gained altitude, perhaps his last sight
of America, unless the FBI captured him and dragged his ass back to his
motherland someday.

On
the display monitor, he saw the plane leave American airspace and felt a wave
of calm envelope him. The first stage of his escape had been completed.

He
looked at Gibbs, who was sitting next to him, reading a book, his entire
attention pinned on it. But Janco knew Gibbs was hearing everything around him,
observing everyone around him. Janco came to the realization that this man was
meticulous, and he planned and executed his mission without flaw. He started
admiring Gibbs – the man giving him his freedom.

The
plane attained a height of thirty thousand feet, and Janco felt a feeling of
euphoria pass over him. The passenger in the window seat had shuttered the
window, and Janco wondered if this plane was being chased by a fighter jet of
some kind like they show in movies.

Knowing
the chance of that was little to none, Janco closed his eyes, hoping to get
some sleep.