The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) (15 page)

“Do
you want some cold Coke?” the jailor asked.

“No.
Just some tea, please.”

“Hey,
six teas, strong,” Mahmood shouted to an invisible person, and within five
minutes, tea cups appeared on a large plate carried by a short man.

Kassem
sipped his tea and felt relaxed. “These fellows are hard to crack,” he said to
Mahmood, putting the teacup down on the wooden table.

“Some
guys are tough,” Mahmood said. “Especially the ones that come from
Afghanistan.”

Kassem
felt insulted and said, “Nobody is from Afghanistan. These fellows are all
local.” Then he calmed a little. “What would you suggest to make them talk?”

“Try
electricity. That never fails.”

“Show
me where you keep your wires,” said Kassem and rose from his chair.

A
HALF HOUR later Kassem and two of his helper policemen appeared in the cell of
the next prisoner. The policemen had wires that were attached to a heavy car
battery at one end and a metal stick with an insulated handle on the other end.
The prisoner was sound asleep on the metal bed. Kassem opened the cell door.
But the loud, creaking metallic noise of the door opening was not enough to
wake him up.

One
of Kassem’s men flipped a switch on the car battery, making the metal stick in
Kassem’s hand live. To test it, Kassem rubbed the stick on the iron bars of the
door, and bright sparks emitted from the point of contact. 

The
jailed man was still asleep, and Kassem thought it would be nice to wake him up
with a dose of electricity. Kassem moved closer to the bed, careful not to
touch the metal frame, and looked at the man’s face. His face was much darker
than the rest of his body. It had multiple dents on it, which perhaps came from
chicken pox. Kassem moved close to the prisoner’s foot and lowered the metal
stick as his assistants watched. He touched the bottom of the star-crossed
man’s foot with the metal rod and held it for two seconds.

The
man’s body shivered at first, and then it curled, just like a worm does when it
is sliced into two pieces. The man groaned in pain, his body uncurling and
curling up again.

Kassem
stood in front of the man, grinning. “Are you going to tell me where Halim is,
or do you want to be licked by this?” Kassem swung the metal rod in the air.

“I
have no idea where he is,” the man said in a fearful tone.

“No?”
shouted Kassem. He lowered the rod, and it touched the ill-fated man’s belly.

The
man shrieked in pain and jerked his arms and legs. “Okay, okay. I will tell
you,” the man said.

“Where?”
Kassem took a step forward and lowered his face and shouted, “Where is Halim?”

The
jailed man gasped for air and said, “Halim is in Switzerland.”

Kassem
flinched. He swung the metal rod in his hand one more time, bit his lower lip,
and threw the prisoner a piercing look.

Three
prisoners had given him three different locations. Kassem was now sure none of
them were correct. Halim was not in any of those three places. He felt all his
work was just a waste, and his day had been in vain.

Out
of frustration, he swayed the metal rod again, this time hitting the prisoner’s
head.

The
question that remained in his mind was whether the men were just telling random
lies or if it was a coordinated lie. He was determined to find out.

“Do
you want to fly to Dubai this week or next week?” It was Lazarus on the phone.

“This
week,” said Doerr. “Actually, I can fly tonight, if you can arrange the
ticket.”

“I
think we should be able to do that.”

“Thanks,
Lazarus. Any idea about where Samuel is now?”

“I
have no new information. If I find something, I will let you know.”

“After
I finish this Dubai job,” Doerr said, “you will let me pursue Samuel. Right?
You won’t take back your word?”

“You
have my word, Max. After this Dubai job is finished and we get Halim, you can
go after Samuel. You will have access to the CIA database and our full
support.” Lazarus’s tone turned menacing. “But I warn you – don’t try to go
after Samuel on your own before the Dubai job is complete. We don’t like
freelancers. You have to do what the agency tells you to do.”

Doerr
thought for a second. The only chance he had to find Samuel was through the
CIA. If he blew this, he would be blowing his only chance of ever catching
Samuel. “Okay, boss.” Doerr hung up.

DOERR
FLEW OUT the same night. The plane touched down in Dubai International Airport
at four p.m. local time. After going through immigration and customs, Doerr
exited the terminal with two suitcases. Hot air hit his face, and he liked it.
He wished to retire in Florida someday and had talked to Gayle about it, but
she thought it was too early to muse about retirement.  

Doerr
took a cab to the Dusit Thani Hotel. ‘It was not overly expensive and gave
value for the buck,’ according to the Langley rep who had given him the details
of his booking. Once he got into his room, he realized that the rep was not
wrong. The room was well maintained, the toilet was clean, and the view from
the room was marvelous.

It
was already seven p.m., and Doerr wanted to have his dinner before the
restaurant closed. He hated to call room service and dine alone in his room.

He
went down to the restaurant and ordered two pieces of shish kabob and a plate
of goat biryani. The restaurant was nearly empty, but he was rewarded with a
grand view of downtown Dubai through the glass windows. The Burj Khalifa, the
tallest building in the world, stood out like a defiant teenager. He knew the
six-hundred-meter-tall building was a statement from the Emirates and was built
at a cost of one and a half billion dollars.

After
dinner, he tipped the waiter generously. Once back in his room, he set the
alarm to 6:30 a.m. and went to bed.

The
next morning, Doerr woke up to the noise of the alarm and spent an hour reading
the dossier he had been given on Kassem, the UAE intelligence chief. Kassem was
loved by the Langley bosses and liked by the current administration in the
White House. His ability to squeeze information out of captured terrorists and
criminals was revered throughout the Middle East.

Doerr
shaved, took a shower, and then went downstairs to hail a cab to Kassem’s
office. The ride was pleasant; the morning air was cool and dust free. The
cabbie dropped him at the office. He paid with local dirham. He got out and ran
his fingers through his blond hair left unkempt by the unruly dry air. He
loosened the knot of his red tie before proceeding toward the collapsible gate
of the large building.

He
took the elevator to Kassem’s office on the seventh floor. The male
receptionist asked him to wait, and he sat down on the metal chair. From the
waiting area he could see the employees inside – they were sitting close to
each other at small tables, each shared by two employees. The working
conditions were inferior to most offices in America, but he had seen worse.

Doerr
glanced at his watch. His wait for Kassem had already exceeded a half hour. The
chief, he was told, was mindful of time. Doerr was about to inquire with the
receptionist, but he noticed a man with a thick mustache, which gave him an
aura of seriousness, approaching. Doerr knew it was Kassem.

After
exchanging greetings and introductions, Kassem showed him the way to his
office. Kassem was not a man who spoke too many words; Doerr knew that from the
dossier.

“We
roughed up eight guys,” Kassem said as he walked down the hallway and described
the men he had in custody. “Three men gave three different stories,” Kassem
continued and entered his room. The room was ten by fourteen feet, Doerr
estimated. Kassem’s own chair was wooden and had intricate designs woven into
it. The three guest chairs were made of metal rods, and paint had flaked away
from many spots. “And we are checking the other men out. We are leaving no
stone unturned.” Kassem gave a big smile and pointed to the guest chairs.

Doerr
sat down; the metal rods creaked, but the room air was cool and comfortable.
The rattling noise of the air cooler could be heard. “You found out anything
useful yet?” Doerr asked.

“Not
yet, but I am hoping we will know where that
bastard
Halim is, pretty
soon. We will beat the hell out of those guys we have in custody, and one of
them will have to be correct.”

“Hope
does not get anything done, Chief. Do you have any sources other than those
eight men?”

Kassem
looked down. Doerr’s words hurt his pride. “We are pursuing all sources,”
Kassem said. “I am sure we will find Halim soon and bust his balls.”

“Uh-huh.”
Doerr knew that sometimes the local authorities would know where the man sought
by the CIA was, but they wouldn’t give out that information – sort of playing a
double agent role.

But
that is not the case here
, Doerr thought. “Can I talk to those
eight guys?”

“Sure.
Be my guest.” Kassem’s expression returned to one of cheer. “I will be glad to
send them to Gitmo. Although I don’t think some of the buggers can withstand
the long air journey.”

Doerr
knew why the prisoners could not withstand a long travel. Torture was a common
method of extracting information in nearly all Asian countries.

“Talk
to them here in Dubai first. Then they can head for Gitmo,” Kassem said. “You
can apply a little bit of water-boarding that your good Vice President Cheney
invented. Maybe then those bastards will talk.”

“Dick
Cheney didn’t invent water-boarding, and we are not allowed to use it on anyone
anymore. When can I see those prisoners?”

“Anytime.
I can take you there right now, if you want.”

“Okay,
let’s go, then. But I will interrogate them alone.”

“No
problem,” said Kassem and rose from his chair. “Be my guest.”

THE
CIA HAD many techniques for asking questions. Some in the agency believed in
torture, but Doerr knew that torture only worked under certain circumstances;
what worked even more was morality, fear of God’s wrath, money, and the ace of
all – the lure of a Green Card. Doerr had used it so often that he could not
even remember how many times. He remembered Evanovich, the Romanian man who had
refused half a million dollars from the CIA, to infiltrate the KGB. Evanovich
used to import drugs from Afghanistan into his own country and exported young
girls from Romania to rich Russian tycoons. After he was given a promise of a Green
Card, only then he changed his mind. The lure of a peaceful life with no enemy lurking
behind with a 9mm or Makarov pistol was too good to refuse for men like
Evanovich.

Doerr
was sure that the Green Card route would be the best incentive for the men
incarcerated by Kassem. He talked to the first three men, interrogating them
alone.  

FAIZAN
WAS BARELY twenty-two years old, but his thick beard hid his youth. He was a
brilliant student, just graduated from Cairo University with distinction. He
applied at a number of American Universities for an entry to the MS program,
not because he loved America, but because he knew that a degree from an
American university would put him on Egypt’s corporate ladder; he hated the
Zionist America. He had been overjoyed when he received his acceptance letter,
not just from one American University but three of them, including Georgetown
University. He had started planning where he would go, how he would fund his
education, and even thought of staying in America after completing his education.
But all that was in vain, as he received a rejection notice from the American
Embassy in Cairo. His student visa application had been rejected. After that
his hate for the American infidels increased, and he was soon introduced to
Halim, the Lion of Dubai. 

Halim
flew to Cairo to meet the young man in person. He was not disappointed by what
he saw. The timing was perfect. Halim was looking for a young, able, and educated
man to carry out his operation. Faizan fit his need. He had just the right
amount of hatred for America and passion for taking revenge.

Faizan
needed some training, which was completed by sending him to Somalia promptly
for a month-long crash course at an al-Qaeda training center.

HALIM
WAS THE man the big corporations in the city of Dubai often called upon to
settle disputes over their share of the oil and other resources. He traveled
extensively with his business partners to Dubai, Riyadh, Amman, Tehran and New
Delhi, to name a few. He partied with many, but being a devout Muslim, he never
touched alcohol. He even rejected the idea of drinking soda from a bottle that
resembled a beer bottle.

Halim
didn’t just do business with oil. He diversified into many areas, including
drugs. He had invested in drug smuggling from Afghanistan and Mexico to Europe,
making good connections with the Mexican cartels in the process.

He
had made a lot of money, but he was a man who didn’t do it for himself. He gave
away most of his money to men who practiced the twenty-five rules to be close
to Allah. The recipients included many mosques and mullahs in Pakistan, Indonesia,
Malaysia and other countries. He was the intermediary for the money that had
flowed from Saudi Arabia to al-Qaeda, and he contributed plenty of his own cash.

He
delegated the business work to his brothers and took on more hands-on work with
his terrorist brothers. He went to Somalia and received training in
marksmanship and bomb making. He visited the mountains that bordered
Afghanistan and Pakistan, considered the headquarters of terrorism.

After
Osama Bin Laden was killed in 2010, Halim was in a total rage and was desperate
to do something at the heart of America – Washington, DC. He thought Faizan
would be the right person to execute his plan. The young man was bent on
revenge and ready to do anything to bring Zionist America down. 

Faizan
had only one condition – he had to have a safe getaway.

Halim
did not consider that to be a problem. He knew a handful of mullahs in the
city, each of them more than capable of changing a young mind like Faizan’s.

AHMAD,
HALIM, AND Faizan sat at a round table in a fourth-floor room in Al Shariba, a
four-star hotel in Dubai, located about a mile from the office where Doerr and
Kassem had met earlier. Ahmad, the wise, old, petulant man in his late fifties,
never forgot to wear a clean white net cap, and today was no exception. Ahmad
was a sort of advisor to Halim. Halim sat there, with his eyes slightly
lowered, and took a curt glance at Faizan, the new young man from Egypt, who
exuded confidence from his freshly finished training in Somalia.

Faizan
looked very angry and said, “I am ready to attack the consulate in Cairo. Give
me permission, Halim. How dare they reject my visa? I have never been rejected
for anything, by anyone, in my life.”

Halim
tried to calm him down. “How many Americans do you think work there?”

“Ten,
fifteen. I don’t know.”

“Ten.
And how many Muslim brothers work there?”

Faizan
caressed his beard and said, “How many? Twenty? Thirty?”

“Fifty-six,”
Halim said with a grin. “Now you realize why we shouldn’t bomb the embassy
there?”

Faizan
nodded. “I see your point. The death of ten Americans does not justify killing
fifty-six of our own.” Faizan stood up and clenched his fists. “But I feel very
angry and want to choke those ten Americans.”

“We
have to think with our heads.” Ahmad, the elderly man, spoke for the first
time. “And act with our hands. Planning is the key.”  

“Cool
down, Faizan,” the short and stocky Halim stood up and said. “Look at this man.
His name is Ahmad. His son was killed by the Saudi Police. But he did not take
up arms. He came to me.” Halim patted Ahmad’s shoulder, Ahmad nodded, and Halim
looked at Faizan and continued. “By coming to me, you have taken the right
step, son. If you go and attack the Cairo consulate, the Egyptian guards will
shoot you and perhaps kill you, too. And those evil Americans will drink more
wine and laugh at us.”

Halim
paused; the other two men wore grim expressions on their faces. Faizan finally
said, “What do you say we do?”

“The
right way to hit them will be to strike them in their own country.” Halim went
back to his chair and sat down.