The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) (8 page)

Doerr
pulled the trigger.

The
sun was bright, and the grass in the park had started dying. The man dropped to
the ground. A few people around him swooped in, but most took a step back. A man
nearby, who was making a balloon for his customer, stopped momentarily. The
young boy, who extended his hand to receive his favorite ice cream from a seller,
froze. Doerr saw them in his telescopic sight.

“Let’s
pack up and get out of here,” Samuel said.

Doerr
disassembled the rifle quickly, and Samuel put the magazine and the barrel in the
top left cabinet in the kitchen, and then he put the rest under the bed inside the
first bedroom. He came back to the living room, rubbing his hands. “We have to
get going now.”

As
planned, Doerr and Samuel took two different elevators down. When Doerr exited
the building, he saw neither Samuel nor the doorman. He kept his head down at
the door to stay out of the line of sight of a security camera that ought to be
present somewhere nearby. He sauntered along the sidewalk of Fifth Avenue and
saw three ambulances racing by with horns blaring. He had no doubt about where
they were heading.

Doerr
took a cab to his apartment. He went straight to the fridge and took out a
Michelob beer bottle. He sat on his sofa, turned the TV on and turned the
channel to CNN. As expected, there was some breaking news. It was not the first
time that he had done something that had appeared on TV within an hour. In the past,
he had watched this sort of thing with mixed emotions.

He
pressed the beer bottle to his lips, took a sip, and then he looked at the TV.
He froze. The blonde anchor went on, “There was a murder in Central Park today.
Chuck Jones, DEA Administrator, was killed by a single gunshot to the head. Police
think it was a sniper job. From the initial analysis, they are sure that the
bullet must have come from one of the high-rise buildings by the park on Fifth
Avenue.”

Next,
a photograph of a face appeared on the TV; it was all too familiar to Doerr. It
was the face he had seen through his crosshairs just an hour ago.

Alan
Brushback, the successful lawyer, had graduated from Lousiana State University and
received his law degree from Stanford Law School. He joined Brownton LLC, a
reputed law firm in San Francisco, as an intern, and never looked back. He
worked there for seven years before becoming a partner. After working as a
partner for five years, he didn’t know what to do with the millions he had accumulated.

The
Republican incumbent congressman in the seventeenth district in California was
under pressure for spending too much time in Washington; he was reviled by many
voters, who considered him to be distant and out of touch. A few of Brushback’s
friends suggested that he ought to run for the office.

Brushback
had never thought becoming a congressman would be so easy.

Initially,
he hesitated, but soon he was completely committed, after realizing that an
opportunity like this was rare. He made a few phone calls, gave speeches at a few
rallies, and went door to door for a few weeks before the Democratic primary.
He defeated his rival by a margin of forty-seven to thirty-three percent.

At
the start of the run-up to the General Election, he was trailing his opponent forty-seven
to fifty-one. But he knew when to up the ante and when to sit calm. That was
how he had won all his cases in court, by knowing when to attack and when to
sit back and let the prosecution and its witnesses mess up their own cases.

When
the election season started, Brushback struck with a barrage of negative ads
that detailed how many days his opponent had spent in Washington during the last
two years and how many in his own district. The ads showed photographs of the
incumbent going on hunting trips with large rifles and dining with rich
businessmen in expensive restaurants. The polls showed that the ratings were in
dead heat, so Brushback tactically released a series of ads where he took the
high road and detailed to the voters which specific bills he would support and
which projects would receive finance if he won the election.

And
boom! He became the congressman from the third district in California.

He
won with a margin of two percent, and his opponent conceded by midnight on Election
Day. The next day he took a victory tour through his district, visiting the state
offices and police stations, urging the folks to contact him about anything – no
matter how small the issue was.

In
the evening, he was exhausted when he reached home. He opened a twenty-year-old
bottle of wine, filled two glasses and waited for his wife, who was freshening
up in the bathroom.

“Don’t
get too perky, though.” His wife, who was also a lawyer, came back and sat on
the sofa and picked up her glass of red wine. “A congressman hardly has any
power.”

“Really?”
Brushback asked. “How do you know all that?”

“When
four hundred and thirty-four other people hold the same position as you, you
know you don’t have much power.” The wife cocked her head and took a sip from
her wine glass. “I remember, I was in college and we needed more money for our
library. So we went to the local congressman to see if he could help.”

“Go
on.”

“Four
of us went to the congressman’s office, and we explained to the man that we
need some funds for the library. But instead of helping us, he told us how
frustrated he was about how little power he had. Then he said that he would talk
to this guy and that guy about our problem. Finally, nothing happened. We
realized that we might as well have gone to the priest of the local church.”

“Thanks
for destroying my excitement about being a congressman on the very first
night,” he said, and they both laughed. Brushback emptied his wine into his
mouth and poured more into his glass.

“What’s
the plan for dinner?” Mrs. Brushback asked.

“I’m
in no mood to go out. What do you want, pizza or Chinese?”

“You
choose. After all, it’s your big night.”

Brushback
took a sip. “Let’s have pizza. Good old pepperoni pizza from Papa John’s and garlic
bread. Will you get me the number?”

After
dinner, Brushback went to bed early with a sore feeling. He was not sure
whether it came from drinking or the need to move up in the pyramid of power.

BRUSHBACK
WAS EAGER to climb the ladder. In Congress, he tried to put his fingerprint on
some appropriation bills, but it was hard. Congress was like middle school, and
many of its senior members behaved like bullies. There was a congressman from
Texas, who regularly smoked cigars in no-smoking zones, just to exemplify
personal rights. Some senior congressmen had formed a band at the top to keep newbies
away from the real power.

Brushback’s
opportunity to ascend came during the middle of his third term. The incumbent Democrat
Senator was being investigated for ethics violations, and the newspapers were
constantly running stories about how the senator spent days and weeks in the Caribbean,
hinting that he spent public money for personal travel and possibly
prostitutes.

Brushback
saw the crack opening up and reached out and wrote a series of op-eds in the
LA
Times
and other major newspapers, detailing what he would do to balance the
budget and reduce crime and gun violence. Soon, Brushback filed papers for the Democratic
primary for the Senate seat, and it was a three-way race between him, the
incumbent, and a rich businessman, who was burning his own millions for a
ticket to the Senate.

Initially,
all three candidates hovered at around thirty percent in the polls. But that
changed when the incumbent’s wife filed for divorce, and the story appeared in the
Washington Post
. Brushback held fifty percent in the polls, the
businessman candidate had about thirty, and the incumbent’s numbers lingered in
the teens.

Three
months later, Brushback won the Democratic primary with a convincing margin and
didn’t bother to rerun as a congressman. He won the Senate election easily;
since 1992, California had not sent a Republican to the US Senate.

After
becoming a senator, Brushback was determined not to be sidelined by his senior senator
colleagues. To his surprise, he found the Senate to have a congenial
environment. Many senators were old and happy to be reelected. Brushback set
his eyes on a position on the Senate Intelligence Committee, which he achieved after
four years and made quite a name for himself in the process.

Many
in NBC News and the
New York Times
called him a potential presidential
candidate. What a difference four years made. He had been nobody in Congress,
and now, four years later, people were pinning presidential hopes on him.

But
he was no fool. He was aware that a lot of things would have to come together and
go right before he could call the White House his home. He needed to have the
right friends and the right enemies, too. He took a keen interest in the work
done by the CIA and liked to lock horns with its newly appointed director,
Alison Stonewall, whenever he met her.

Appointed
by President Campbell, Stonewall was the first ever woman chosen as a director
of the CIA, and Brushback had voted against her during the Senate confirmation.
Many of Stonewall’s opponents, including Brushback, had argued that her lack of
military combat experience would someday prove to be detrimental to the nation’s
security. But President Campbell had been determined, and the Senate had grudgingly
confirmed her with a fifty-two to forty-seven vote.

Stonewall
was a cum laude at Harvard and did a four-year stint in the army right after
Harvard, during which time she provided translation service and helped military
families relocate. She had taught at Georgetown University for six years before
heading into a string of government jobs, including the post of New York attorney
general for four years, at the end of which she went back to her old teaching
job.

Brushback
was open about his dislike for Stonewall and told everyone who would listen
that she should be replaced as soon as possible.

SITTING
ON HIS sofa, Doerr felt as if he were in a bad dream as he watched the CNN anchor
push her hair from her forehead and continue. “The DEA administrator, Chuck
Jones, was speaking to a small group in Central Park. It happened so suddenly
that two of the audience fainted, and they were later treated for shock. Detectives
have arrived at the scene, but they are tight-lipped about any further details.
We are being told that at seven p.m. tonight there will be a press conference.”

Doerr
started pacing in the living room and glanced at the TV frequently.
Oh God,
I’ve killed the DEA administrator.
  

Shivers
ran down his legs; he felt dizzy and sat on the sofa. He picked up the phone
and dialed Samuel’s number – no answer. He left a message asking him to call
back immediately. An hour passed, and there was no call from Samuel. He called
Victor and Len, but neither of them picked up the phone.

Doerr
was up almost the entire night.
He knew killing someone was a crime like
no other unless it was for a good cause.

He
slept fitfully at five in the morning and woke up at ten a.m. There was no
message waiting on his phone; there was not even a missed call.

Doerr
was worried sick. On the TV, they showed that the FBI detectives had identified
the building where the bullet had come from. Doerr knew the rifle had been left
in a top cabinet; he knew he had wiped clean his fingerprints from the trigger,
but wasn’t sure if his fingerprints were left elsewhere – on the rifle barrel,
countertop, or window.

He
thought of going back to the condo and retrieving the rifle himself. But maybe
Samuel had already picked it up, and realistically, going back to the condo was
out of the question.

Doerr
called Samuel, Victor and Len many times over the next few days. Still none of
them called back, and Doerr knew it was time for him to go to the office at Thirty-Third
Street and confront them personally.

The
next morning he put on his black suit, the best he had. He got on the Line Two
subway train. On the way, he eavesdropped on a suited short man who was telling
another guy that he had been jobless for six months and was going to a Wall
Street firm for an interview.

Doerr
got off the train and sauntered to the gate that led up to the ground level as
the train hummed away, carrying the rest of the passengers to their destinations.
He hoped that the short man would do well in the interview and get the job. He
walked to Thirty-Third Street and turned right. When he reached the nondescript
entrance of the CIA building, he paused. He pushed aside the old memories and focused
on the current situation. Mentally he ran through the course of action he was
about to take.

He
stepped inside and saw the same warning as before – private property stay away.
He walked past the sign, and, as expected, he was confronted by four hulking men
in black uniforms.

“Please
turn back, sir,” the man on the right said.

“I
want to talk to your boss,” Doerr tried to explain. “I work for the CIA.”

The
black guard took his Glock from his shoulder holster. He looked at another guard
and said to Doerr, “Show your ID.”

“I
don’t have my ID with me right now. I just want to talk to your boss to clear up
a few things.” Doerr was sure if he told them what he had done lately, it would
only lead to more trouble. And he had never received his ID after shaking hands
with Samuel.

“This
is a private place,” the black guard raised his gun, “and has nothing to do
with the CIA or whatever it is that you worked for. Now
please
leave, or
we will be forced to take action.”

Doerr
knew they were just following protocol. But he could not be flippant about the
raised gun, and engaging in any violence with these men was out of the question.

“I
just want to speak to your boss for one minute. After that, I’ll be gone. I
promise.”

The
four men exchanged looks. The tall guard said, “Wait here,” and disappeared
inside. The remaining three guards stood blocking the entry and looked away
from Doerr.

The
tall man came back with a middle-aged guy who looked like he could be their boss.
He was short but stout, a black man with a thick mustache. He threw an
unfriendly look at Doerr and asked in a thick voice, “I am Steve. What can I do
for you?”

Doerr
told him that he worked for Samuel.

Steve
frowned and said, “Come with me, please.”

Doerr
followed the man through corridors he remembered quite well. Steve turned at
the end of the hallway and entered a room, and Doerr followed him. There were
ten computers on a long table, and Steve sat in front of one of them. He asked,
“What is his name again?”

“Samuel.
Samuel Bolenback.”

Steve
typed something on the keyboard and clicked the mouse a few times. Then he
turned in his revolving chair and said, “Samuel left us a year back.”

“Are
you sure?” Doerr could not hide his surprise. “How is that possible? Can you
check one more time?”