The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) (20 page)

“Take
his cell phone out.” Rosania looked at Doerr. “And check it.”

“I
don’t think there is a need.” Doerr turned to Ahmad. “How did you know the room
number when you were in the cab? You are lying, aren’t you?”

Ahmad
said nothing. His silence said it all. Doerr stood up and forced the barrel of
the gun in Ahmad’s mouth. The grating noise of metal colliding with teeth was
loud in the quiet room. “Tell us what plan Halim is hatching, or you die here.”

Ahmad’s
head tilted backward. Doerr saw Ahmad’s mouth filling up with blood.

Doerr
withdrew the gun and pressed the mouth of the barrel against Ahmad’s forehead.
“Tell us now. Our patience is running out!”

“Okay.
I will tell you.”

Doerr
lowered his gun and pulled his chair closer to Ahmad. Rosania clasped her arms
together at her chest.

“I
don’t know where Halim is,” Ahmad continued. “Very few people actually know his
whereabouts. I met with him a few weeks back, and that was it. I haven’t heard
from him again.”

“Tell
me about your last meeting with Halim,” Doerr said. “Who else was there?”

“It
was just me, Halim and Faizan.”

“Who
is Faizan?”

“Faizan
was a new recruit. He is an Egyptian student whose visa was rejected by the
American consulate in Cairo.”

“And
what did you guys talk about in the meeting?” Doerr asked.

“Nothing
much,” Ahmad said in a nonchalant way.

“Nothing
much?” Doerr screamed, stood up and raised the gun as if he was about to hit
Ahmad’s head.

“Halim
had a plan,” Ahmad said quickly. “He was going send Faizan to the center of
American power, and something big was going to happen.”

“If
Faizan didn’t have a visa,” Rosania said, “how is he going to get to America?”

“I
don’t know that part. Halim said he would work on it.”

“What
else?” Doerr asked. “You guys must have talked about something else. Where
exactly in America was Faizan going to go? Where will he stay?”

“Halim
said he knew a professor who Faizan could stay with for a few days. Now, I’ve
told you everything I know. Please, let me go to my family. They will be
worried.”

Doerr
glanced at his watch. It was 9:45 p.m.

Rosania
stood up and said to Ahmad, “Why should we worry about your family when you
people are out to destroy us?”

“Who
is
you people
, and who is
us
?” Ahmad said, his tone confident,
spiked with anger. “Muslims against you Westerners? That we are out to kill the
rest of the world? You know the Muslim religion is very peaceful. We greet one
another saying ‘
salaam alekum
.’ Do you know what it means?”

“No,”
Rosania said.

“It
means ‘may peace be with you.’ We are not at all violent. But we have been
projected to be.”

“Shut
up! We are not here to listen to your lecture,” Doerr demanded, holding the gun
in one hand and patting it with the other. “Tell us more about Faizan.”

They
talked for another thirty minutes. There was no new information. Doerr was
fairly confident that Ahmad was being truthful. He let Ahmad clean up in the
bathroom, and then Ahmad left.

Rosania
started packing her stuff. Doerr knew Rosania had to switch to a new hotel.
Ahmad would not go to the cops in a million years, but he could return with
some of Halim’s armed goons.

“So
all we know is that an Egyptian guy named Faizan is headed for America,” Doerr
said.

Rosania
placed her clothes in her suitcase. “Didn’t Ahmad say Faizan could be staying
with a professor for a few days? So narrow it down to a professor from the
Middle East.”

“Do
you know how many professors there are in America? Over a million. I’m sure
there are thousands and thousands of lecturers who are originally from the
Middle East.” Doerr paused. “And Faizan is heading to America’s power center.
That means he is going to Washington or maybe New York. Maybe he is in America
already.”

“Maybe.
What I don’t understand is why Ahmad became so chummy with us in the end.”

“Did
you put the serum in his wine?” Doerr asked.

“Yes.”

“And
did he drink it?”

“I’m
not sure.” Rosania closed the lid of her suitcase and thought for a second. “
He
must have
. I saw his glass was empty.”

“Then
there you go. The serum and guns make people talk. And Ahmad is not stupid,”
Doerr said. “How much longer are you going to take to pack up?”

“Another
fifteen minutes perhaps. Why?”

“I’ve
got to call the FBI CTD right now.”

“I
know the FBI,” Rosania said. “But what is CTD?”

“Counter
Terrorism Department. We have to track down Faizan. Something is telling me he’s
already in America.”

ONCE
DARKNESS FELL, Faizan and Rodney dragged the small boat across the soft soil.
They had placed the marijuana bags in the boat already. Only some distant
sodium vapor lights were visible, and the constant noise of the crickets was
audible. By the time the boat was near the water, both Faizan and Rodney were
exhausted and breathed heavily.

“Let’s
take a break.” Rodney stood close to the boat and bent forward a little. Faizan
opened his duffel bag, inserted his hands inside and felt the barrels of two
AK-74 rifles, the same firearm he had trained with in Somalia.

Also
accompanying the rifles were three hundred rounds of ammunition. Felix had
handed over the firearms before leaving New Mexico City. Everything was going according
to the plan.

Rodney
started pushing the boat, and Faizan joined him. The gentle sound of water
splashing could be heard.

Soon
the boat was afloat on the dark surface of the river. Faizan jumped into the vessel
first. Rodney gave one last push, and he jumped into the boat.

The
two men rowed with small wooden planks, bringing the boat closer to the American
soil. When the boat was near the midpoint in the quiet waters of the river,
Rodney pulled out his cell phone and typed something fast.

“What’s
that?” Faizan asked.

“I’m
texting guys on the other side. They come to pick you and those up.” Rodney pointed
his hand to the marijuana bags. “Don’t talk now. I hear the American police
have electronics that can pick up even low voices.” 

The
two men kept rowing slowly but steadily, without creating any splashing cacophony.
The boat moved forward through the darkness; only a thin slice of the moon was
visible in the sky.

It
did not take long to cross the three-hundred-foot-wide river. Twenty minutes
later, the boat landed against the American riverbank with a jerk. Faizan saw
two shadows appear, and then they approached the boat.

Here
is my ride
,
Faizan thought.
Those must be the two men Rodney talked about
.

The
taller of the two men was near the boat; he asked Faizan in a hushed voice,
“Ready,
amigo
?”

Faizan
nodded and picked up his duffel bag. The two men lifted the marijuana bags, and
Rodney started rowing back to Mexico. Within minutes, Rodney and the boat
disappeared into the darkness.

AN
HOUR LATER, an Impala was moving at seventy miles an hour on I-20 West Highway.
The two men were riding in the front seats, and Faizan sat in the rear, keeping
his right hand over the duffel bag. He looked out of the window, but he could
only make out the pairs of headlights of the oncoming cars and the rear lights
of the cars ahead. The Impala took an exit, and after a few turns, it stopped
at the parking lot of a Walmart store, right next to a black sedan.

The
man from the Impala’s passenger seat alighted and walked to the trunk of the
vehicle. He pulled out the marijuana bags, put them in the trunk of the black
sedan, and then he sat in the vehicle.

Now,
Faizan was left inside the Impala with just the driver, who was a little older
and a little taller than Faizan, perhaps twenty-eight or twenty-nine years old
and six feet two inches tall. He had an unshaved beard and a thin mustache.   

“Come
to the front,
amigo
?” the driver said to Faizan.

“No,
I’m fine here,” said Faizan. He remembered what Halim had told him – “Be
friendly but avoid unnecessary conversations. If you talk too much, you might
give away things that you did not want to.”

A
few seconds later, Faizan checked the car clock – 10:20 p.m. He said to the
driver, “I just want to get some sleep. I will sleep better here.”

The
driver backed out the Impala and pulled out of the parking lot. “Yes, get some
sleep,
amigo
. We will be driving the whole night today and the whole day
tomorrow. And hopefully tomorrow night sometime we should reach Augusta.”

Augusta,
Georgia, was where the professor lived and where Faizan was headed. The plan
was that Faizan would stay there for two or three days and then start the last
leg of his journey, culminating in the
big event
that would teach the
Great Satan America a lesson and terrorize its citizens.

Faizan
inserted his hand inside the bag and touched the barrel of his gun. He closed
his eyes and could visualize the bullets coming out of the barrel and entering
bodies of bystanders.
When the moment comes
, he thought,
the barrel
will be pointed at women and children first
.

The
soft targets first, Halim had told him so.

DOERR
TALKED TO Mark Louder, the high-ranking official at the Counter Terrorism
Department of the FBI, and gave him all the details he had about Faizan, which
were not many. Louder agreed to contact the Cairo consulate and get more
information about Faizan from his visa application. A day later, Doerr received
a call from Louder. It was ten minutes past midnight in Dubai and 4:10 p.m. in
Washington. Doerr had just fallen asleep after a hectic day but snapped awake
and picked up the phone on the second ring. He’d had an idea that Louder would
be calling soon with some good news.

“Hello,”
Doerr said into his phone. 

“There
are five Faizans whose visas were rejected at Cairo in the last three months.”
Louder was a fast-acting and straight-talking man. “Three students and two
tourists.”

“APBs
have been issued on all of them?” Doerr asked.

“No.
We can’t issue APBs without knowing which Faizan we’re looking for.”

“Just
issue APBs for all five of them!”

“And
you expect results from that?” Louder’s tone turned unfriendly. “First, none of
them have done anything yet. Second, don’t you think if we issue APBs just like
that, they will become ineffective? We are just working based on some theory
here, aren’t we?”

“We
have received information from multiple sources. This Faizan guy is trying to
get into the US or may have gotten in already. He is about to do something
really big.” Doerr could not keep his composure anymore and was screaming into
his phone. “And you are telling me you can’t issue those APBs?”

“If
you have multiple sources, then why can’t one of them give you a photo or a
sketch of Faizan? That will surely help. We are contacting the Egyptian
authorities for help, and we are running the names by all our Canadian
consulates. People always try to come through Canada once their visas are
rejected in their own country.”

“For
now, issue the APBs for all five.” Doerr’s voice was calmer now. “We will try
to get a sketch of Faizan. Then you can zero in on one person.”

“Yeah,
you do that. We will be waiting for the picture.”

“So
you are not going to issue any APBs?”

“I
will see what I can do. I’ll have to talk to my boss first. Okay?”

DOERR
GOT UP at six in the morning, and he took a cab straight to Kassem’s office.
The morning Dubai traffic rush was yet to start.

When
he reached Kassem’s office, it was open, but there was no receptionist. Doerr knew
Kassem usually started work early, so he proceeded to the chief’s office.

Doerr
saw Kassem rummaging through some papers, looking for something. Doerr stood at
the door and cleared his throat.

“Welcome
back, Doerr,” Kassem said. “What brings you here again?”

“I
need to go to Ahmad’s house and take him to a sketch artist. Can you lend me
some of your people? So I can pick him up.”

“Sure.”
Kassem stood up. “Actually, I’m going to come along. I want to put an end to
this whole darn thing.”

Kassem
made a few calls, and after twenty minutes, Doerr was riding in an Emirate
police car. Kassem and three other policemen accompanied him. The car raced down
the highway that bisected the downtown area. Palm trees were standing tall on
either side. A black BMW coupe was ahead of them. The car moved to the right,
clearing the path for the police car.