The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) (2 page)

Doerr
sighed. “Mom, I’m married already.”

She
suffered from Alzheimer’s disease. Before moving to the elderly care home, his
mother had lived with him in his apartment for a few years. But when her
condition had worsened, the doctor had recommended assisted living, where she
could be monitored and cared for twenty-four seven.

Doerr
took out his smartphone and showed her a picture of Gayle. “Isn’t she
beautiful?”

“Yes.”
His mother’s face lit up. “What does she do? How did you meet her?”

“She
works with computers at a big bank.” Doerr started telling her about Gayle,
which he had done many times, and he knew all too well that his mom would not
remember anything he was saying. He also knew that he would repeat the same
thing to her again, sooner or later. But he never felt tired. In fact, he felt
joy telling her about Gayle’s qualities.

Ten
minutes later, his mom asked, “How is Billy? I haven’t seen the boy for a long
time.”

Doerr
didn’t say anything. He could not. His chest felt heavy, and moisture started
gathering at the corners of his eyes. He took a deep breath and, without a
shred of emotion, said, “Billy is doing fine. Busy with his studies.”

Even
if he told her the truth, she would not remember. Billy would always be alive
in her mind. For a fraction of a second, Doerr wished he had his mother’s
affliction.

DOERR
TOOK A late subway train from his work. As the train moved forward through the
tunnel, he felt as if his heart was collapsing and his brain crashing from the
sadness of his son’s death.

A
few Tuesdays back, at around the same time, his son had been killed while he
vacationed in Punta Cana. When he heard everything from the police officers, he
felt like choking the killer with his own hands. If only he knew who that killer
was. He had gone back to work after only one week’s break, just so he could get
out of the apartment where Billy had been murdered so viciously. He was only nineteen
and had twenty thousand ambitions. He’d had a bright future ahead of him, but
it had ended before it had truly begun.

Police
had assured Doerr that the killer would be found soon. Another apartment
dweller had seen a mysterious man leave the building at around the time Billy
had been killed. He was a tall, large-framed man and wore a big cap. Doerr hoped
the cops were right.

If
the cops did not find the killer within a month, he promised himself, he would take
the matter into his own hands and find the culprit and kill him. Killing was
nothing new to him. He remembered the first time he had killed a man.

IT
HAD HAPPENED fifteen years ago in a five-star hotel in downtown Chicago. Doerr
was given the target’s picture and the time when the man would check in. He
patiently waited in the lobby, pretending to read a magazine. Doerr observed
the man standing at the check-in counter.

The
man was wearing a pair of black sunglasses, a black suit, and a black hat. Even
his suitcase was pitch-black. Doerr looked the man over from top to bottom and
took mental pictures as the man finished his check-in and gave a wide smile to
the hotel clerk. The man proceeded to the elevator, and Doerr followed him.

The
elevator stopped at the eleventh floor, where the man got out and headed for
his room. Doerr followed him slowly, without raising suspicion. The man stopped
in front of his room, inserted his key and opened the door. Doerr could have
easily stormed in and choked the guy to death, but he knew that there were
risks that way – someone could pass by, or the man could surprise him with a
secret weapon. Doerr walked by the door as it closed.

An
hour later, Doerr patiently waited at the window in his own hotel room. He had
made a special request to be placed in the strategically located room. With a
clear view of the hotel front, holding the loaded M16 rifle, binoculars
clamped, he waited and watched.

The
man came out two hours later.

Doerr
raised his rifle. The crosshair fixed on the man’s head. There was no way he could
miss the shot. He had trained for this kind of situation for days.

But
he lowered the rifle.

AM
I going to be a killer? An assassin
? Doerr pondered
the answer, and a few seconds later his mind was clear.

He
raised the rifle again; the man was still within range, with yards to spare.

He
put his index finger on the trigger – ready to shoot – but he hesitated again. He
closed his eyes, hoping the man would walk away. Ten seconds later, when he
opened his eyes, the man was walking back; he must have forgotten something.
Doerr fixed the crosshair on the man’s head for the third time.

I
promised to do this
, he told himself. A boy passed by the
man, and he waited until the boy was at a safe distance.

He
took one last look and squeezed the trigger. Doerr watched the man drop to the
ground as he absorbed the rifle recoil. He stood at the window for a few
seconds. People were gathering around the dead man’s body, and he couldn’t see
the crumpled corpse anymore. At least ten men stood, many looking up, trying to
see where the bullet could have come from.

Doerr
quickly moved away from the window and unassembled the rifle, just like he had
practiced before. Then he hit the bed and took a nap. At around seven in the
evening, a man knocked on his door. Doerr opened the door and ushered the man
in.

Doerr
handed over his rifle, unassembled and packed in a duffel bag.

The
man took the bag. “There is a limo waiting outside.”

“For
me?” Doerr asked.

“Yes.
The deputy director is waiting in his hotel. He wants to have a chat with you
about the operation.”

“Why
can’t I just talk to him over the phone?” Doerr said in an irritated voice. He
had already made plans with his old buddies to check out the local night clubs.

“He
said it’s important,” the man said and took a step back. From the man’s
demeanor, Doerr knew he did not really have the option to carry out the conversation
over the phone. “He has a call scheduled with the president later in the
evening.”

“Okay,”
Doerr said with a sigh. He knew antagonizing the deputy director of the CIA
would be suicide. It was barely a month since he had graduated from the
agency’s one-year-long training program.

The
man left, and Doerr called his buddy and gave him the bad news.

Twenty
minutes later, Doerr walked out of the hotel and got into the waiting limo,
which took him to another five-star hotel, where the deputy director was
occupying the Presidential Suite. The suite was fitted with a red-decorated
Persian carpet. Two large crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Doerr had
never seen such colossal chandeliers before.

Doerr
sat on the plush sofa and waited for the deputy director to appear, which he
did about fifteen minutes later. Doerr instantly recognized him. He had seen
the middle-aged but skinny man’s picture before, but he was meeting the deputy
director in person for the first time.

Doerr
stood up. “A pleasure meeting you, sir.”

“Sit,
sit.” The deputy director made a hand gesture. “Just call me Nick. We are all
colleagues.”

Doerr
sat down; Nick sat opposite him and continued, “I am pleasantly surprised by
the nice work you did today. I guess Ted was right.”

Ted
was the CIA recruiter who had taken Doerr in, a year earlier.

“I
didn’t believe him at first,” Nick continued. “But when your trainer also said
that you’re good at everything, especially sniping, I had full confidence in
you. It’s unusual.”

Doerr
frowned. “What is unusual, sir?” He immediately corrected himself. “Nick?”

“To
send a rookie like you to such a job. But obviously I made the right decision.”

“About
that, Nick,” Doerr said. “Who is the man I just killed?” He had been given a
file earlier with the physical details of the target. But the detail he was
interested in was not included in the file – the target’s identity, which Doerr
suddenly became determined to find out.

Nick’s
face became gloomy; he looked at Doerr and then at the floor.  

Nick
raised his face and made an effort to cheer up. “Let’s have some champagne
first.” Nick made a hand gesture to someone inside one of the rooms in the
suite.

Doerr
didn’t see anyone else, but within half a minute, a man appeared in chef’s
dress and held a plate with two glasses of champagne.

Nick
took one glass, and Doerr took the other one.

“Cheers,
young man.” Nick raised his glass and touched Doerr’s. Glasses collided, the clinking
noise was heard, and the yellowish fluid made small waves inside the glasses. The
two men sipped their alcohol. “You have been a catch for the agency. You are
our assassin. You are
the assassin
. Cheers.” Nick laughed loudly.

For
few seconds, no one spoke.

“Nick,”
Doerr finally opened his mouth, “so who was that man?”

“The
man,” raising the glass to his lips, Nick continued with a grumpy tone, “you will
see all the details in tomorrow’s newspaper.”

Doerr
dithered about what to do. He was already forming a negative opinion of Nick.
He was pissed that he’d had to give up a fun-filled night and come all the way
to meet this cuss, who would not answer a simple question with a simple reply.

Nick
emptied his glass. “Well, thanks for coming, Max. I have to get ready to call
the president. Meanwhile, you can enjoy drinks at the club downstairs. I was
there earlier.” Nick winked. “The girls there are very pretty.”

Nick
rose from the sofa, but Doerr just sat there. He made a decision. He needed to
know who that man was. The newspapers would not have the right information. In
fact, the CIA training had taught him that the information that appeared in newspapers
was barely fifty percent of the real thing.

Doerr
stood up and faced Nick. “Sir, and I’m going to only call you sir. I need to know
who that man was. Or else I’m not leaving this place.”

Nick
finished the wine in the glass he was holding and picked up another from the chef,
who was standing by with a tray with two fresh champagne glasses. Nick finished
the first half of his second glass and made a gesture to the chef, who laid the
plate down on the coffee table and left. Nick was visibly intoxicated. Doerr
saw that, but he was also desperate to get the answer to his question.

Was
he a bad man? How bad?

Was
he a good man? Unlikely.

Doerr
walked over to Nick, held him by his shoulders and then made him sit down on
the sofa gently. Nick eased his butt into the sofa, his face red and breath
thick with alcohol.

How
is he going to talk to the president now
? Doerr
wondered. But to Doerr that was a second worry. First, he needed his answer. 

Doerr
knelt down in front of Nick and placed a hand on his knee. “Sir, who was that
man? It is biting into my conscience, and I
have
to know now, sir.”

“Conscience,
conscience,” Nick barked and made a dismissive move with his right hand. “Why does
everyone have a conscience? Why can’t you just do what your employer tells you
to?”

“Sir,”
realizing that convincing was the best way to go at the point, Doerr said
politely, “if I know exactly who that man was and why he needed to die, I will
be able to do my next job more decisively and with more precision.”

Nick
sighed, looked at the floor again and breathed heavily; Doerr was not sure
whether it was from the effect of the alcohol or something else.

“Sir?”
Doerr said and looked straight into the deputy director’s eyes.

“Okay,”
Nick said. “I’ll tell you, but you have to promise me you’ll keep it zipped.
And if the word leaks to the press, then your ass will be on fire, regardless
of whether you leaked it or someone else did. Deal?”

“Deal.”
Doerr had no hesitation in his voice.

“All
right.” Nick shifted his position on the sofa. “The man’s name is David Khan.”

“David
Khan?”

“Yes,
yes. Weird name.” Nick rolled his eyes. “His parents called him Javed Khan, but
he changed his name later. His parents came to America from Pakistan years ago.
David Khan was born in Detroit. When he went to college, he changed his name. He
dropped out at the beginning of his junior year. Then he opened an auto parts
company. Within three years, he was doing business worth one hundred million,
which was very odd, given that the auto industry was in decline. Rumor was that
his money came from the Saudis, the snakes. But nothing could be proved.
Anyway, after he became super-rich, he funneled money to terrorists all over
the world. Some in law enforcement said he was harboring terrorists right here
on American soil.” Nick paused and took a sip, and then he continued. “David
had strong connections with the Molinaros too, the Motor City crime family.”