The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) (25 page)

A
little late but still okay
, he thought as he backed out of the
driveway.
Now is the time to call Halim and tell him I’m on the last leg of
my journey and tell him to cut the big check and send it to my family in Egypt.

HARRY,
BERT’S GRANDSON, heard the gunshots, but he was not sure what the noise was,
and he was afraid that it could be the monsters he read about in books. His
heart beat faster, and he felt coldness in his feet. He bent his knees further
and put his arms around his head. He covered himself with the comforter, and
soon he was asleep again. A few hours later, he woke up from a bad dream. He
listened hard for the gunshot noise. Nothing.

He
was not sure if the noise he had heard earlier had been real or another dream.
Feeling something was amiss, the boy uncurled and decided to go upstairs and
sleep next to his granddad. He stood up and climbed the stairs. He saw that the
lights in the living room were on, which was odd. Fearing high utility bills,
his granddad never forgot to put the lights out before going to bed. 

Harry
went straight to his granddad’s bedroom, but he was not there. Harry came
downstairs and started looking around.

Harry
looked toward the front door and saw his granddad’s body lying on the floor. He
took two steps closer and saw the dead dog and the puddle of blood. Instantly,
he knew something was wrong.

With
a fluttering heart, the boy ran to the kitchen and grabbed the phone. He
wondered for a second whether he should call his mom or 911. He decided to call
his mom, but then he could not remember the number, so instead he dialed 911.

A
female voice said, “911, what is your emergency?”

“My
granddad is hurt,” the boy said frantically. “My granddad is hurt.”

“Calm
down, honey, calm down. What makes you think your granddad is hurt?”

“He’s
lying on the floor, and there’s lots of blood.”

“Tell
me where you are?”

“I
am in the kitchen, and my granddad is near the door.”

“No,
I mean what is your address?”

“Hmm…”
The boy knew his apartment address, and he tried to remember his grandparents’
address, but he simply could not recollect.

“Okay,
honey. We’re sending someone right away. Just don’t hang up. Stay with me.
Okay?”

DOERR
RECEIVED A call from Mark Louder, the FBI man. “I have some good news.”

“Go
on.” Doerr looked at his watch; it was one p.m. in Dubai.

“There
was a murder reported in Virginia. Luckily the deceased man had video cameras
on his property that can record in darkness, and it got good images of the
killer. We are running the video and the pictures by experts, but the
perpetrator looks very much like one of those three men named Faizan for whom
we issued those APBs.”

“Where
is the man now?”

“He
was at that Virginia house till five a.m., and then he left. We don’t have a
clue where he is now.”

“Did
you get the plate number of his vehicle?”

“Yes,
but partially. It is a Georgia plate. We can’t tell the last digit of the plate
number. So we are running all ten plate numbers.”

“He
is headed for Washington.” Doerr knew it instinctively. From Georgia, Faizan
went to Virginia. So the friend Ahmad talked about was in Georgia, and the
plate number should help identify the man.

“What?”
Louder sounded startled.

“I
am saying Faizan is headed for Washington, DC. He is going to do something
really bad there. You have to tell them and put the city on high alert.”

“I’m
not sure, Max. Washington is a big city. After all, we are just jumping from
one conclusion to another.”

“Louder,
I’m telling you,” Doerr felt angry again. “He’s going to Washington. Just take
it from me.”

“We
need more than a hunch to hold a city hostage.”

“I
need to go to Washington right now,” Doerr said. There was no point in wasting
time in Dubai. There was a bigger problem brewing at home.

“What?
I can’t help you with that.”

Doerr
knew that. “Thanks for your call.”

Doerr
hung up and dialed Lazarus’s number. “I think they have located the man named
Faizan. I need to get back home immediately.”

“Where
is he now?” Lazarus asked.

“He
is headed for Washington. I’m pretty sure.”

“Okay,
that’s good,” Lazarus said. “That will be in the FBI’s jurisdiction now. They
handle all domestic terrorism issues.”

“I
know that. But it originated in a foreign land. So we have to be involved too.”

“I’m
not so sure, Max.”

“But
my heart says we have to do something. Can you arrange transport for Rosania
and me?”

“I
can try. But, as I said before, this is now in the hands of the
FBI
.”

“Please,
get a plane to take us to DC. I promise I will come back to Dubai and hunt down
Halim.”

“Let
me see what I can do. I will call you soon.” Lazarus hung up.

Doerr
waited by the phone after the call was over. The day was nearing its end in
Dubai. In a few hours, the city workers would head for home, and night would
sneak into the city. Doerr knew in Washington the city dwellers were seeing the
sun rise and were getting ready for another hectic day of work, but they were
unaware what danger might be lurking on the way.

Doerr
dialed Rosania’s room number; she was staying at the same hotel. He gave her
the news and told her that she should get ready to head for the USA.

An
hour later, Lazarus called. “We have a clandestine fighter jet waiting to take
off in a half hour,” Lazarus said. “But we have a problem.”

“What
is that?” Doerr asked.

“It
is a two-seater plane. Which means only you or Rosania can be on it.”

“Okay,
Rosania will have to catch another plane.” Doerr sighed and hung up.

He
ran to the hotel lobby and hailed a taxi. He left his stuff at the hotel and
updated Rosania on the phone from his taxi. “We are lucky to get a plane at
all, let alone a super-fast fighter. You rest tonight, Rosania. Take an early
morning flight tomorrow, and by tomorrow night, you should be in Washington, DC.”

After
leaving the old man’s house, Faizan got on Interstate 95 and drove for twenty
miles before heading for a rest area. He parked his van in the parking lot. He
set the alarm on his wristwatch for nine a.m. and closed his eyes for another
nap.

But
he could not sleep. He dozed off for a while but was woken by the screaming of
some children. A bunch of kids, accompanied by their parents, passed his
vehicle; the kids were fighting about something and made a lot of noise. The
father gave Faizan a dirty look as he passed by, and Faizan looked the other
way. He closed his eyes again and thought it would have been nice to have a
pair of sunglasses. The sun was up and bright, making it hard to sleep.

After
another half hour, Faizan woke up again, this time to the noise made by a bunch
of teenagers.

Faizan
sighed and decided to head for the restroom to take a leak. On the way back he
checked out the store and bought a pair of cheap, dark sunglasses.

Perfect
, he
thought and put the glasses on. He got back to his van and checked his watch
again – 8:15 a.m.

He
closed his eyes, trying to catch a last bit of rest, but he was not able to
sleep. He dozed on and off. He thought of calling his family in Egypt to say
goodbye, but he had clear instructions not to make any unnecessary calls, not
even to his family.

“The
FBI listens in to all calls made,” Halim had said. “Your only calls will be to
me, using the coded words.”

Halim’s
words were sacrosanct to Faizan, and he did not call his family.

Faizan
waited till nine a.m., and then he drove out of the parking lot, and he was
back on the highway. Now he had to search for a Walmart or Home Depot store and
pick up four more propane tanks, to make his bomb deadlier. He drove for twenty
minutes and took an exit that seemed to have a lot of shops. He drove around
for a while but did not see a Walmart or Home Depot store, so he went to a gas
station to inquire.

“What
do you need?” the store keeper, a twenty-something black woman, asked.

“I
am looking for some propane tanks. We’re having a party this weekend,” he lied.

“We
have them right here,” the woman said and smiled. “How many do you need?”

“Four.”

Faizan
paid with cash and loaded the four tanks in the rear of the van. At the ramp,
Faizan floored the gas pedal into the highway. The plan was to start for
Washington at around noon, giving him enough time to reach the chosen spot by
four p.m., where the bomb would explode and his bullets would be unleashed. 

Faizan
parked his van at the next rest area and tried to doze off one more time. At
eleven a.m., he called Halim. It was to be his last phone call.

“I
have got all the presents, and I’m headed for uncle’s house.” Faizan spoke in
coded words, saying he had got the bomb ready and would be heading for
Washington soon.

“You
are doing great work,” Halim said. “You will be rewarded handsomely, my son. Go
and finish the job now.” Halim hung up.

Faizan
closed his eyes once again, hoping for an undisturbed siesta. This time he
slept for almost an hour and, after waking up, headed for the restroom again.
At the store, he bought a turkey sandwich and a packet of potato chips.

Before
leaving the store, he thought about the bomb.
Is everything done? The
explosive-filled cans. The links. The detonator. The propane tanks and nail
boxes. Yes, everything has been done. With one call, I can explode the bomb
right now if I want to.

As
he walked back to his vehicle, a feeling of euphoria passed through his body.
He was sure that after today’s events, Muslim brothers around the world would
worship him.

Faizan
got back to his van, adjusted the mirrors and slowly drove out of the parking
lot. He was back on Interstate 95. He drove for an hour and noticed that
traffic was getting heavier.

As
he approached Washington, he saw a river and enjoyed the view of the calm white
water that separated the highway from the city where some of the most powerful
men in the world lived. He had long imagined what he would do if he ever became
as powerful as the US president.

First,
he would stop all aid to Israel and give billions to Palestine. Second, he
would make all Muslim countries adopt and execute Sharia Law or else lose all
trading with America. Third…his spell of imagination broke when a BMW sedan
honked and passed by his vehicle. He realized that he had crossed the lane
marker, and it was his mistake, but still he honked back.

The
Roosevelt Memorial Bridge, which was carefully chosen as the entry point to the
city, rather than the Fourteenth Street Bridge, which went through areas that
were more closely monitored, was coming up. A bunch of birds flew by, and
Faizan started wondering whether it was necessary for him to die.

Was
there a way to kill a lot of people and still save his life? Americans would
die. Halim would be happy, and Faizan would continue to live. Was that
possible?

He
was thinking of a way to explode the vehicle and still get away, instead of
killing himself. Of course, he would have to hide some details from Halim. If
Halim knew about Faizan’s change of plan, Halim would certainly come for Faizan
and kill him; Faizan knew that. Instead of giving a big check to Faizan’s
family, Halim would send a big fucking bomb. 

“I
hate cowards,” Faizan remembered Halim saying, “but do you know who I hate even
more?”

“The
Americans?” Faizan had asked timidly.

“No.
The traitors who live among us. Every Brutus must be lynched.”

Faizan
now wondered if Halim was simply expressing his opinion or threatening him.
Faizan wasn’t sure.

As
per Halim’s plan, Faizan was now just a few hours from his death. As he drove
over the bridge, he became more and more certain that he could escape with his
own life, hide somewhere, maybe in Somalia or Afghanistan, and escape Halim’s
wrath after dealing the death blow to the Americans.

He
had his passport and almost a hundred thousand dollars in that briefcase. The
large sum had been given to him just so he could bribe his way out of any
situation that jeopardized the mission, if a cop caught him on the way or
something like that.

Now
he knew who he would hand over those dollars to, if needed – the immigration
officer at the Dulles airport. Instead of firing the machine gun on the crowd
and turning the handgun on himself, he would just leave them in the vehicle,
and after triggering the bomb, he would simply walk away and take a cab to the
airport. He even thought of a good excuse in case of a confrontation with Halim
– he forgot the ammunition in the vehicle. Due to the tension, he left the
rifles and handguns in the van, and then there was no way he could kill himself
– yes, that’s what he would say. Yes, that would make a perfect excuse. Faizan
chuckled and glanced at the GPS.

He
was driving on K Street, and his destination was about a mile away.

DOERR’S
FIGHTER JET touched down at Andrews Air Force Base at three p.m. sharp. He had tried
to sleep during his flight, but the ride had been super-noisy, and the plane had
shaken too much. As soon as he got off the jet, he ran for the car that was
waiting for him. He drove out of the lot like a bullet, heading for Washington.
It was an official vehicle, equipped with an emergency light, which Doerr
turned on whenever he faced congested traffic. He drove on the highway shoulder
at times, when needed.

Within
a half hour, Doerr was inside Washington City. He was desperately trying to
think what Faizan’s target would be. He figured there was no point going to the
White House, the Capitol or the Washington Monument; those places were heavily
guarded already. He knew that the terrorists liked to attack transportation
systems, since they provided easy access and plenty of publicity. The London
attack in 2005, the Madrid attacks in 2004, and the Mumbai attack in 2008 – all
involved attacks on a train system during rush hour.

Rush
hour was about to begin in Washington city. The Metro Center sprang to Doerr’s
mind. 

AS
FAIZAN INCHED toward his destination, the Metro Center, his heart leapt with
joy. The GPS showed he was only 0.2 miles away. There were scores of people
around, walking by the curbside, tall buildings everywhere, people going in and
coming out of them. Faizan noticed the difference between Washington City and
the other places he had been in the last couple of days – Augusta, Virginia,
North and South Carolina. In those places, he hardly saw any one walking by,
and in this city, the streets were teeming with people, scurrying around like
ants. Faizan felt proud about the last minute change he had made to the plan.
Many infidels would die, and he would live to see another morning, another
night.

The
Metro Center had been chosen as the target after a heated discussion. A
discussion Faizan was not part of. He had heard from Ahmad that when Halim
discussed it with the others, some had proposed the White House, some mentioned
the Capitol, and another person talked of the Washington Monument as a target.

Hahim
had laughed at the mention of the monument and said, “Have you ever looked at a
picture of the place, where it stands? It’s surrounded by concrete and large
grass fields. No vehicle can get within five hundred feet of the monument. It’s
as though the person who planned it one hundred and fifty years ago knew that
it would be a target of sabotage someday. Sending a human bomb would not be a good
option either, as it is guarded by tens of security people. The same is true of
the Capitol. As for the White House, the road next to it has been closed since
9/11, and it’s also heavily fortified. Let us be practical about the target.”

Faizan
knew that, after much deliberation, the Metro Center was chosen for a variety
of reasons. First, the fatality count would be high. Second, the place was
frequented by people from all walks of life. The consequent closure and
increased security would terrorize the common masses for days, if not months.
Third, and most importantly, the place was accessible to a car bomb.

“One
bomb and a rain of bullets,” Halim had proclaimed to his audience of donors and
radicals. “The mayhem created by just one man will kill more than a hundred
Satans and scare off thousands.”

The
audience had clapped, but one man had raised his hand and said, “What about our
own security? The CIA and their Special Ops are ruthless too. Will they not
find out we are behind the attack and come after us?”

“Good
question. Faizan is going to enter America illegally so there will be no paper
trace. He will kill himself in the end so there won’t be any interrogation. The
only link is the professor, but I am pretty sure he is no idiot and will keep
his mouth shut for his own safety. So no trace, no witness and hundred plus
Americans dead at the center of their country. But if you are so scared, then
maybe you should not be here. Gentlemen, any more questions?”

There
had been no more questions, only claps.

Now,
Faizan passed a Starbucks coffee shop; he could see the front of the Metro Center
Station. People were going in and out like maggots. He salivated at the thought
that many of them would be bleeding on the ground soon, and he would walk away,
alive and unharmed. He glanced at his watch – 4:50 p.m. He decided to drive
around the block to kill some more time.

After
finishing the round, he stopped ten feet away from the entrance to the station
and picked up the briefcase that held his passport, the gun, and the cash. With
one hand inside his jacket pocket, holding the cell phone, he turned his head
and took one last look at his bomb, which would explode soon.

Faizan
got out of the van, slammed the door, and started walking toward the wall
opposite the station entrance. Facing away from the vehicle, he placed his
finger on the preprogrammed button on his cell phone. He would push it when he
knew he was safely out of range of the bomb.
Inshallah
.

AFTER
PROFESSOR HASSAN and his wife came back from the police station, they were both
ashen faced, and neither of them ate anything or spoke to each other. The professor’s
wife talked to two of her friends on the phone. The professor debated with
himself whether he should call anyone but in the end decided not to and stared
at the TV, barely following the program on the screen, and he kept pacing in the
living room throughout the night.

The
next morning, a police car stopped outside the professor’s house with its
emergency lights on. As the professor watched the car with hope and optimism,
two more police cars joined the first one. Soon, there was a knock on the door.
Hassan opened the door and saw three male officers standing at the front.

“You
found my daughter?” the professor asked, a ray of hope in his voice.

Ignoring
the question, the officer in the middle said, “I am Special Agent Steven Roth.
We are from the FBI.” He flashed his FBI badge.