The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) (7 page)

Doerr
watched the monitor for an hour, and, similar to the previous day’s pattern, Heherson
left at 11:15 p.m. At the front door of the hotel, a man was waiting with a motorbike.
Doerr had given the man seven thousand baht earlier in the day to arrange to
have a motorbike wait for him the entire night.  

Doerr
took the bike and leaned against the wall, kicking a beer bottle that someone had
left there.

Within
minutes, Doerr saw Heherson come out of the parlor and climb into a waiting
taxi. The cab pulled away from the building, and Doerr followed; the cab took a
few turns, and then it merged onto the Ram Inthra Expressway.

The
cab, a converted Toyota Corolla, was moving slowly through the traffic-ridden
streets of Bangkok. It shot ahead a few times, but Doerr twisted the throttle
and caught up with the cab easily. In Bangkok, motorcycles were able to drive much
faster than a sedan, due to the congested traffic that never cleared, no matter
how many new roads and bridges the government constructed.

After
about five kilometers, the taxi took a turn, and so did Doerr. The new road had
less traffic, and the cab picked up speed. As Doerr increased his pace, the air
blew through his hair, and his shirt billowed behind him. He felt uncomfortable,
but he continued to drive at a safe distance behind the taxi, which he hoped
would soon stop at a cheap hotel, but it didn’t. It crisscrossed through a
number of streets. Doerr maintained a good distance; some roads were badly lit,
and he expected that he had the stealth he needed.

A
few turns later, the cab stopped in front of a large hotel. Doerr stopped in a
dark shadow and watched a hotel employee come to the cab and help Heherson out.
Doerr took out his smartphone, noted down the hotel name and immediately called
Samuel.

THE
NEXT DAY Doerr was drinking his coffee from a tiny foam cup in his hotel lobby.
After four days in Bangkok, he was still grappling with jetlag. A local man sat
at the next table. He wore no shirt and smoked and sipped coffee at the same
time. Doerr watched a boy, barely fourteen or fifteen years old, carry in two
huge suitcases. An elderly man, the apparent owner of the suitcases and obviously
a new customer for the hotel, followed the boy.

Doerr
wondered at what grade that boy had dropped out of school. He was so engrossed
in his thought that he was startled by the ringing of his own phone.

It
was Samuel. “Good job, Max. Our techies were able to hack into the hotel
computers and found a room number booked against one of Heherson’s known
aliases.”

“Great,”
Doerr said.

“Now
you need to do one more thing.”

“What
is that?” Doerr asked.

“Go
to his room and get his cell phone, or its number. Then we can listen in on
what the bastard says.”

“I
have to go to his room, when Heherson is there, and snatch the phone from his
hand?” Doerr said sarcastically. “Is that what your plan is?”

“Yeah,
something like that,” Samuel paused for a few seconds. “Or go through his stuff
and notes to find his number.”

“I
have a better idea.”

“Okay,
let me hear it.”

“You
guys put a satellite watch on the hotel and tell me when he goes out. Do it
during the daytime, so it’s still busy, or when I walk into the hotel the
employees might become suspicious. Then I’ll get in his room and plant a bug. Your
techies can match the voice coming out of that bug with the cell phone
transmissions. When they find the match, they’ll also have the cell number,
actual conversation and who he is calling. Then my job will be over.”

“I’m
not sure if that will work, Max. So many things have to go right. Let me talk
to my techie. I’ll get back to you.”

“If
your techie says he can’t do it, then just get a new guy.”

THE
FOLLOWING DAY, Doerr went to the safe house and picked up some key cards that
had various security codes imprinted on them. Swiping two or three of those
cards would guarantee access to any hotel room door without complaint.

A
day later, Samuel called. “My techie figured everything out, just the way you
said, Max.”

“Good
to hear.”

“I
have more good news. Heherson has just left the hotel.”

“You’re
sure?”

“Yes,”
Samuel replied. “I saw the real-time video feed myself.”

Doerr
immediately hung up and rode his bike to Heherson’s hotel and walked inside.
The hotel lobby was teeming with people, and Doerr sauntered to the elevator
without raising anyone’s suspicion. No one gave him a second look, and no one
followed him. Guests were reading newspapers in the lobby, and three hotel
staff members were busy helping patrons with their luggage.  

Inside
the elevator, Doerr pressed the button for the sixth floor and was soon in front
of room number 617 – Heherson’s room. Doerr looked around and wiggled the
handle: nothing. He started swiping the cards he had taken from the safe house,
and upon swiping the fourth card, the door clicked open.

Inside,
he planted three bugs – one under the bed, one under the sofa, and the last one
under the cabinet in the restroom. Doerr knew some people had a habit of sitting
on the toilet for a long time and making calls from there.

Samuel
called the following day and told Doerr that Heherson’s phone number had been identified
by the techies, thanks to the bugs that he had placed. Langley folks heard Heherson
give commands to his henchmen in the Philippines, and they received a plethora
of information.

His
assignment complete, Doerr packed up his bags and left Bangkok.

During
the flight back home to New York, he felt good.
Yes, this is what I needed.

But
as soon as he disembarked from the plane, the memory of Billy’s dead body stabbed
him in the chest like a sharp dagger. As he walked through the airport lounge,
he saw his son’s face on the glass walls. He stopped at a coffee shop, but the
caffeine only made him feel emptier.

After
a few days of downtime, he received another call from Samuel. “Good job, Max.
We have already identified where Heherson is holding the hostages. We got
pictures of his compound, and a team of Marines are chalking up a path for the
helicopters to get there. A Delta team is rehearsing how they will extract the
hostages. Thanks again.”

“You’re
welcome. I’m glad I was able to help.”

“Your
next job will start in two weeks. Get some rest.”

Doerr
hung up and decided to go and talk to the detective working on Billy’s case. Doerr
was told that the investigation had hit a wall and if someone did not come up
with a solid lead, the case could be closed.

Doerr
returned home and set about talking to his neighbors and local shop owners,
asking them to distribute pamphlets he’d had printed asking for any information
about the crime. But only a few of them were willing to help.

A
week later, Samuel gave him his next assignment. Only when Doerr focused on
work was his mind soothed a little. The job was in London; a terrorist,
originally from Jordan, was hiding in a flat in Maida Vale. Doerr was told to
flush him out and force him to go back to Amman.

HIS
NAME WAS Sheraz Naseer. Naseer had come to London with a single purpose – to get
rid of Abdullah, the king of Jordan. Naseer had entered the country on a UK student
visa with an acceptance letter from a relatively unknown London University. The
only Londoners who seemed to know about the University were its staff and the
students.  

Naseer
did everything to achieve his goal, but after liaising with al-Qaeda’s London
cell and other Muslim terrorist outfits, he sadly realized that overthrowing
the king would not be as easy as he had expected. He felt even more frustrated
after learning that Jordan was not a big name on al-Qaeda’s priority list.

But
he was determined to be an important person in the fiefdom of terrorists.
Naseer became a hot-shot authority in the terrorist circle by exploding a bomb
in London’s metro station and killing seven innocents, and then he swore
against America. He wrote fiery blogs on the internet about his antipathy for
the most powerful nation on Earth. He went to the mountains of Afghanistan for
training and claimed to have killed four Americans there.

DOERR
WENT TO London and took up residence in a hotel near Maida Vale for two months.
He never told anyone what exactly he did, but the London police recovered a
diamond-studded pendant and three thick gold necklaces from Naseer’s apartment,
which had been reported stolen by the wife of a billionaire Russian oil tycoon.
A judge sentenced Naseer to three years in jail, but after two months he was
deported to Jordan, where the state police beat him up and tortured him with
spiked wires, squeezing out the last drop of his blood and every bit of
information he possessed. The intelligence that he gave up was faxed to Langley
within hours.

“OPERATION
THREE IS going to be here, in America,” Samuel explained, sitting across the
table from Doerr in Susie’s Bar. “In fact, it’s right here, in New York.”

“In
New York?” Doerr asked as he pressed his beer bottle to his lips. Loud metal
music played in the background. It was late evening, and the bar was full of
drinkers who needed a break. Soon there would be no chair left unoccupied.

“Yes,”
Samuel said. “Al Mosabi, the Saudi minister and tycoon, will be visiting
Central Park. He is a big financial supporter for terrorists. We are going to
take him down. Rather,
you
are going to take him down.”

“Can
we kill him on US soil?” Doerr gave him a curt look. “Will that be right?”

“Everything
is right if it’s about killing terrorists.”

“What
if a Saudi furor breaks over this?”

“Well,”
Samuel had a smirk on his face, “we will let our do-nothing State Department
handle that. Let them do some work. Why should we worry about everything?”
Samuel took another sip of his beer and put the bottle down. “Now, let’s talk
about the details of the operation. This Mosabi guy has been funneling money to
terrorists all over the world. He is here for an Arab League meeting. Many in
the league know what he actually does, but most members don’t know. We need to
get him. I’ve already emailed you his dossier. We will meet again and talk
about the operation in detail after you go through it.”      

Doerr
nodded, but his mind vacillated. It was not like he had never killed anyone on American
soil, but killing a foreign national, under the tutelage of the government right
here in New York, was no small deal. But he was sure Samuel had done his homework.

JOHNNY’S
STEAK HOUSE, a restaurant cum bar on Forty-Second Street, had been visited by
Doerr many times.

He
entered the place with Victor and Len, the two CIA men who had accompanied
Samuel when Doerr had met him the first time. The maître d’ showed them to the
leather-upholstered booth.

After
ordering their beers, they started talking.

“I
have some concerns about my next job,” Doerr said.

“Why?”
Victor asked, and Len looked on.

“I
have to take down a target here in New York.” Doerr looked down at the table
and tapped the knuckles of his three fingers.

“Don’t
worry,” said Len. “Samuel is the rising star in the CIA. Soon he’ll be a hotshot
field manager. Trust me, he is covering every angle.”

Victor
nodded, rubbing his bearded chin. “You will do well under him, Max, I’m telling
you.”

“The
operation is in Central Park.” Doerr let out a sigh. “Central Park, guys. I
can’t imagine the commotion it will cause. So many kids play there. Imagine the
psychological impact it will have on them.”

“We
have to do the tough thing.” Victor leaned forward, and his brown beard hung
over the middle of the table. “We are
meant
to be tough. We can’t be
bothered by the thought of some kid getting scared. Maybe they should be scared;
they should have a taste of reality. Now let’s make a toast.” The men raised
their drinks.

SAMUEL
AND DOERR were riding in a limo, shielded from outsiders’ view by the tinted
glass all around. It was October, and the city was getting ready for the upcoming
winter. People walking the streets wore jackets, and no one had sandals on.   

Samuel
and Doerr sat side by side. The limo crawled along Seventh Avenue toward the
park. Doerr’s mind was racing. His thoughts veered from Billy to the M107 rifle
in the duffel bag sitting in the rear seat, from the face of the target to the pandemonium
that would certainly follow after the man was gunned down in the park.

The
limo came to a sharp stop at a red light on Fifty-Fifth Street. Outside, two
kids walked, holding their parents’ hands.

The
limo took a sharp right turn on Fifty-Ninth Street. Horses and carriages lined
the street, ready to show tourists around the city. Doerr saw one stallion restlessly
shift its weight from one leg to the other. One owner fed hay to his horse with
one hand and patted its face with the other.

Two
blocks later, the limo took a left turn; Doerr watched the buildings pass by.
“Hey, stop here,” he said to the driver. “We need to stop, back there.”

Samuel
tapped his shoulder. “Relax, Max. That old building the agency had is gone now.”

“What
do you mean?” Doerr pointed behind him. “The agency had two floors in that
building. What happened to them?”

“We
sold them a year back.”

“Then
where are we going to take down this guy from?” Doerr asked with a frown.

“Don’t
worry, I got the perfect place,” Samuel said as the limo stopped in front of a building.
It looked like a residential place. A sign outside read ‘Call 212-315…to lease.’

Doerr
could see the limo’s reflection on the glass walls of the building. A blond old
woman came through the revolving door. Etched on the glass was ‘Sillman Realty.’
He realized it was a condominium complex. “What are we going to do from here?”

“Come
on; follow me.” Samuel got out, the duffel bag in his hand.

Doerr
could see the gate to Central Park on the left. He followed Samuel out of the
limo. “We’re going to do it from here?”

“Yes,
come on.”

Doerr
followed Samuel through the revolving door. The fat security guard, in a blue
uniform, gave him a stare. Doerr walked right behind Samuel into the elevator. “Man,
whose place is this?” Doerr was becoming more and more uncomfortable.

Samuel
looked him in the eye. “A friend of mine. Okay?” Samuel pressed the button
marked sixteen, and the elevator started moving up.

Doerr
felt the pull. “What’s your friend’s name?” he asked. The elevator stopped with
a jerk, and both men got out.

Samuel
struggled to carry the duffel bag. He limped, and then he stopped at a door; a
metal plate with 1604 etched on it hung on the door.

Doerr
stood next to Samuel, put his hands on his waist and pointed to the door. “I am
not
going in there till I know who owns this place.”

“Okay,
relax.” Samuel dropped his shoulders. “Her name is Irene, and we have been
friends for a while. She is very rich but also patriotic. I asked for her permission
to use this place for an hour.” Samuel kicked the ground and shrugged. “Now,
can we get on with this?”

“Can
you show me a picture of her?”  

“Okay.”
Samuel sighed. He put his hand inside his pants pocket and pulled out his
smartphone. Samuel showed him a picture.

Irene
was a young woman in a pink blouse, and the photo showed Samuel kissing her
left cheek. “Oh, come on,” Doerr said. “You’re still at it behind your wife’s
back.”

“At
what?” Samuel unlocked the door and stepped one foot in. “Remember she’s just a
friend. Now come on, time is running out.”  

“Oh,
yeah,” Doerr knew Samuel’s nature.
Once a womanizer, always a womanizer.

Doerr
knew Samuel’s first two marriages had ended badly, all because of his cheating
nature, and he lied a lot. He had once boasted that he had a girlfriend in every
European country he had visited. Between Amsterdam and Paris, he had a half
dozen of them at one time.

Doerr
raised his foot, about to enter the condominium. But his foot stopped in the
air. “Wait, Samuel.” His uneasiness about the operation was growing. “Can you
show me something written, some official confirmation for this operation?”  

Samuel
turned; he was inside the condo, and Doerr stood outside. “All right, I knew
you might ask for that. Here it is. Take a look.” Samuel took out a paper from
his pocket and held it out for Doerr.

Doerr
took it and read. It was a letter, written and signed by the agency director,
approving the operation, on the official CIA letterhead.

Doerr
handed the letter back and followed Samuel inside, doubts still lingering in
his mind. But he had already decided to go along with it; the letter was all
the proof he needed.

Samuel
placed the duffel bag on the shiny, dark granite countertop. “Now you go to
work.”

Doerr
opened the bag, took out the parts and assembled the M107 long-range rifle in
exactly three and a half minutes. He took the magazine, already loaded with .50
caliber bullets, and clamped it to the rifle. Doerr knew an M107 was overkill
for the job. A good-old M16 would have been enough.

Samuel
placed the black bipod on the windowsill and handed the telescopic sight to Doerr.
“Now, do what you do best. We’ve got only one shot. If we miss, he will hide,
and we will never get the bastard under a crosshair again.”

Doerr
clipped the sight to the rifle and took aim through the open window. The target
stood in the park, near a large oak tree, surrounded by around twenty-five
people. He wore a black blazer and a pair of black pants. His black beard and the
thin mustache were the exact same as the photo Doerr had seen in the dossier.

“Shoot
him,” Samuel hushed as he moved his lips closer to Doerr’s ear. “That’s the
bastard.”

Doerr
moved his rifle a few inches to the left and then to the right.

Samuel
took out a photo and showed it to Doerr. “This is the man. Do you see him?”

Doerr
nodded.

“
Shoot
him
,” Samuel said. “We have to take him out with a single bullet and get
the hell out of here. Quick!”

Doerr
checked the picture on the paper. It was the same man. He settled the crosshair
on the man’s head. He had a bald spot at the front, right above his forehead.
It looked like he was giving a speech, and the folks around him were listening.