The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) (14 page)

“But
will that be the right thing to do? Max?”

“That’s
the way it should end. Justice, due process – those are for books. After I kill
him, I will walk into the Edgar Hoover building and tell the FBI everything. If
they think I’m guilty of something, let them punish me. But I will kill Samuel.
He deserves no other end.”

“But
then what will happen to you? To me?” Gayle cocked her head. “There will be no
peace in your life. Our life.”

“Peace
is not in living a long life. It is in knowing that you have done the right
thing.”

Gayle
stood there silently and nodded after a few thoughtful seconds.

STONEWALL
SCHEDULED A five p.m. meeting with Lazarus using the Outlook mail system. She
left the location field blank and hit the send button at exactly 4:55 p.m. She
immediately received the acceptance notification from Lazarus. Usually, Lazarus
came to her office for such discussions. But today she decided to make an
exception and headed for his office instead.

His
office was just as big as hers. The furniture was a little downscale. On the
right wall, there was a white projector screen that was a foot shorter than the
one in her room. In the left corner there was an old-style TV; her room had a
seventy-inch flat-screen TV that hung on the wall.

“Good
afternoon.” Lazarus raised his face from the laptop that lay on the squeaky
clean glass table as Stonewall took a seat on the wooden chair. “What can I do
for you today?”

“The
bank for the terrorists…we need to close it down.”

“Which
bank are you talking about?”

“The
bank of the Lion of Dubai. And not just the bank. We need to take the Lion down
too. During my predecessor’s term, Halim took money from others and gave it
freely to Hamas, al-Qaeda, al-Shabaab and many other terrorist outfits. There
is a rumor that he made money in that process.”

Lazarus
nodded. “Yes, we have known him for some time. He has provided money for many
terrorist activities. Bombing in Cairo, training in Somalia, stabbing in London
– just to name a few. We have always ignored him because we knew the terrorists
are going to get money from somewhere. So far he himself has not taken part in
any action. And we’ve been going for bigger fish.”

“If
you and the previous director gave enough attention to Halim,” Stonewall’s tone
was sarcastic, “I wouldn’t be here with a ton of baggage.”

“I
know. Why don’t we hit him with one of our drones?” Lazarus asked as he lifted
his face.

Stonewall
bit her lower lip, then said, “Drones are preferable. But the problem is we
don’t know where the bastard is right now. The images we have are all old. We
have asked the Dubai intel chief to find out where Halim is hiding.”

“I
met
the
chief a year back.” Lazarus leaned back in his chair. “He is a capable man. He
can take care of things. I trust him. I was talking to him last week about an
unrelated matter. He doesn’t throw camel shit.”

“I
agree, but this is a very serious matter. We have to send our own team to find
out where Halim is now. Tell Doerr that he has to head for Dubai right away and
get to the bottom of this. A very capable field officer from Italy will join
him in Dubai.”

Lazarus
looked surprised. “I thought you didn’t like Doerr. Why did you choose him?”

“I
didn’t,” said Stonewall and paused. She touched the glass paperweight and said,
“It was an order from the president himself.”

“You’re
kidding.”

“Nope,
he somehow knew Doerr’s story. He never liked that senator from Ohio. What’s
his name?”

“Kubrick.”

“Yes,
Kubrick. The president fought with him when they both were in the Senate. He
called me. The president knows how dangerous this Halim guy can be. He asked me
to send Doerr to Dubai, ASAP.”

“But
didn’t you hint you could find a better person for this job?”

“Good
question,” Stonewall said. “I discussed it with the president. He argued for
Doerr. He argued that Doerr is good, and he is an unknown commodity where he is
going to go.”

“And
what is he going to do once he finds Halim?”

“Bring
him to justice, of course.”

“That
means put two bullets through his head. Right?”

“The
president was lecturing me that we have to be civilized. He wants us to bring
him here and try him in a court of law.”

Lazarus
laughed. “And we are going to do that?”

“Of
course not. I would like to talk to Doerr once he gets back.”

“Sure.
I will arrange the meeting,” said Lazarus. “Another thing, will you let me
handle this case? I will manage the whole thing and report to you any way you
want.”

“Are
you sure?” Stonewall pursed her lips. “Do you wish to handle the whole shebang?
I mean, you are so close to retirement. It may not be finished by the time your
retirement day comes.”

“Please,
madam,” Lazarus said desperately. “Let me manage this one. So I can tell my
grandkids, someday.”

“Okay,
if you want it so badly. But I need a daily report every day, by three p.m. Got
it?”

“No
problem,” Lazarus said, and Stonewall rose to leave.

“Thank
you, Madam Director,” Lazarus said as she stepped out.

Zakir
Kassem was over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a thick beard that made
him look bigger than he really was. He was strong; he could take down any
muscleman all by himself. But that was not the reason he was appointed the
intelligence chief of Dubai Police Force. He was a direct descendant of the Al
Maktoum family; that was not the whole reason for his meteoric ascent into
power, but it had definitely helped. Kassem had served in the country’s
military, where he rose to the rank of lieutenant general in five
years. He was sent to Pakistan to train with supposedly the best
intelligence organization in the Muslim world.

He
had spent one year in Pakistan as part of his training and closely worked with
the ISI, the CIA equivalent of Pakistan. In that stint, he had learned not only
how terrorism worked across the globe but also how to spy on the country’s own
population. 

The
ISI used to train thousands of jihadists and send them across the border to
India, but that was before 9/11. The truth was that after the ISI had bowed to
American pressure, it reduced the number of terrorists it mass-trained and sent
to India. But those terrorists were not going to stay home and read the
Quran
all day. They started blowing up bombs in Pakistan like people in America set
off firecrackers on Fourth of July. The Pakistani terrorists, once
disowned by the ISI, were partly funded by the Taliban and al-Qaeda, but the
majority of the money came from Iran. The ISI had to keep a constant vigil on
its people to see who received money from foreign sources.

His
stint with the ISI later proved handy for Kassem because, as the intelligence
chief, he needed to spy on his own people first. 

As
the chief, one of his main jobs was to collaborate with the CIA, to provide
them with monthly reports and answer their never-ending queries. He took every
email and fax from Langley seriously, as he knew how deep the CIA’s pockets
were and how long its hands were. 

He
knew about Halim. In fact, he had met Halim a few times. Deep inside his heart,
he had respect for Halim, and he knew that Halim was not called the Lion of Dubai
for nothing. When he received the fax from Langley, telling him that they
needed to know Halim’s whereabouts, it was no surprise to him. He had known
this request would come sooner or later, so he had kept tabs on Halim. But
the problem was that Halim had just disappeared from Dubai a month before the
CIA fax appeared on his machine. 

After
receiving the fax, Kassem asked for all the manifests for the last three months
from all airlines that flew in and out of all sixteen airports in the United
Arab Emirates. Bundles of paper with details of who flew when, to where, came
flooding in. Kassem and a few trusted officers started going through the
manifests meticulously, working day and night, looking for Halim’s name or
those of his five known aliases. Kassem’s wife started complaining about his
long hours and stopped only when he threatened to severely beat her, like he
had done three years back.

He
found nothing in the manifests under Halim’s name. Kassem knew that didn’t mean
Halim had not left the country.

A
LARGE BLACK windowless van rolled toward a secret jail located just twenty
miles west of Dubai, far away from Al Tower, on Al Etihad Street in Dubai,
where the police and intelligence headquarters were housed. The van approached
the security gate, which was made of thick black-painted iron bars. The gate
started opening, making just enough space for the vehicle to pass through. It
looked like the guard was expecting the van.

The
vehicle proceeded along the cobblestoned road and soon came to a halt. Five
guards in olive-green dress shirts, with sticks in their hands and pistols in
their holsters, approached the van. The driver alighted and walked to the back
of the vehicle and opened the door. Inside, eight men were sitting with their
hands cuffed and legs shackled. All of them wore orange jumpsuits.

The
guards escorted them inside the jail and guided them to their cells.

These
were the men picked up by Kassem earlier in the day. He knew asking those
bastards about Halim’s whereabouts was like asking al-Qaeda where they would
explode the next bomb. 

Kassem’s
order was strict – no food or water to those men for two days, just to soften
them up.

AFTER
THOSE TWO days had passed, Kassem appeared in the jail with four strong-looking
assistant policemen. They visited all eight cells, one by one, and broke
the right thumbs of all the men without asking a single question. 

Later
in the day, Kassem and his men reappeared in front of the first of those cells.
The accompanying jailor inserted the key in the lock and gave it a turn. Kassem
grabbed the iron bar of the gate, pulling it open. He made eye contact with the
jailor and jerked his head, indicating that the jailor should leave now, and
the man immediately obliged.

Kassem
entered the cell. It was barely eight by ten feet, with a bed covered with a
threadbare cotton sheet. The temperature was much cooler than outside. If the
walls of the cell had ever been painted, it must have been decades back. The
jailed man was about five feet six inches tall, had gray hair, and a round pot
belly. The man stood up from his bed as soon as he saw Kassem enter.

Kassem
stood in front of the jailed man and gave him a piercing look. Kassem did not
move his eyes for a few seconds, and the imprisoned man took a few steps
backward until his back was against the wall, his face ashen.

“How
is your thumb?” Kassem asked. It sounded more like a joke.

“Okay,”
said the abashed man, his voice hardly audible.

Kassem
took two steps forward and asked angrily, “Are you a man or woman? I asked how
your thumb is.”

“Okay,”
repeated the man, this time a little louder, and he pressed his back against
the wall.

“Let
me see your thumb,” Kassem said. His four assistants moved closer, and now the five
men were standing barely three feet away from the fearful man, who raised his
hand. The thumb was swollen and red.

One
of Kassem’s assistants grabbed it and gave it a turn.

“Ah…ah,”
the man bellowed and writhed in pain. The echo of his cry could be heard. The
assistant let the finger go. The jailed man bent a little and covered his
painful thumb protectively with the other hand.

Kassem
grabbed the man by his hair and straightened him up, “Now, tell me where Halim
is, or we are going to break your remaining nine fingers, cut off your penis
and feed it to eagles in the desert.” Kassem moved his head
closer. “What’s it going to be?”

The
man started crying like a baby and said, “I don’t know where Halim is. I
haven’t seen him in a while…I am innocent.” 

Kassem’s
long experience with people told him that the man was truthful. But he gave
instruction to his assistants to break the man’s other thumb anyway, which made
him feel like he was the most powerful man on Earth.

Kassem
walked through the hallway, moving on to the next cell. He heard the shrill
cries coming from the first cell – the captive man’s second thumb had been
broken.

Kassem
and the three strong men entered the cell of the second prisoner. This fellow was
a hulking muscleman, certainly over six feet, and weighed more than ninety kilos.
He stood up as Kassem entered the cell, and the man held his ground and made eye
contact with Kassem.

It
was a dimly lit, damp room. A metal bed lay by the wall; the stench from the
toilet at the corner was enough to make any normal person retch. But
neither Kassem nor the other men were ordinary people. They stood in front of
the jailed man with heads high and arms akimbo.

The
two assistants moved close to the prisoner, grabbed his shoulders and hoisted
him up in the air. Kassem stepped in front, grabbed the man’s balls and
squeezed them as hard as he could. The prisoner screamed like an animal about
to be slaughtered. When he threw kicks and one of the kicks fell on Kassem’s
pot belly, Kassem held the prisoner’s one leg with one hand, and with the other
he twisted the prisoner’s balls, as if trying to pluck them out.

The
assistants dropped the man on the concrete floor and kicked him in his chest.
The man tried to crawl away, but his head hit the bed. He curled up, writhing
in pain.

Kassem
took his gun from his leather holster and pointed it at the prisoner’s head,
“Now, tell me where your boss, Halim, is.” He tapped the mouth of the barrel
against the man’s head.

“I
don’t know,” replied the man. One of the assistants kicked him again.

“Maybe
this will help,” said Kassem and forced the barrel of his gun into the
prisoner’s mouth. The cracking sound of the metal clashing through teeth could
be heard as the prisoner tried to soften the blow by tilting his head backward.

Kassem
took a step back. Blood started coming out of the tortured man’s mouth. Kassem
jerked his head, a signal to kick him again. One of the assistants obliged; the
man grunted and spat blood and a tooth on the concrete floor.

Kassem
put his right foot on the man’s chest, pinning him to the ground. He pointed
his gun to the man’s head and said, “For the last time. Do you want to tell me
where Halim is, or do you want to die here?”

The
man nodded, and Kassem waited to hear.

“Halim
is in Somalia,” the prisoner said in a broken voice.

AFTER
KASSEM WAS done with the second prisoner, he moved to the third cell. The
prisoner lay on the bed, and at the noise of the door opening, he stood up. He
wore a jumpsuit that covered him up to his neck. He had unkempt hair and black marks
below his eyes. The prisoner rested his right hand at his hip; it perhaps mitigated
the pain from his broken, swollen thumb.

Kassem
stood in front of him with a demeanor that told the prisoner that he was in a
lot of trouble. His assistants moved in, and one assistant kicked the base of
the bed, shifting it by inches. The jailed man shivered and moved back two
feet.

Kassem
took two steps forward and was almost breathing on the nose of the poor man.

“Strip,”
commanded Kassem.

“I
beg your pardon?” the prisoner asked meekly. He clasped his hands together at
his belly.

“I
said strip,” shouted Kassem, one of his assistants stepping closer to the
prisoner, standing barely a foot away from the man being asked to strip.

In
response, the prisoner bent slightly, putting his two palms at his groin, as if
trying to protect his manhood.

One
assistant grabbed the hapless prisoner by his hand, pulling him closer. The
other assistant caught the prisoner’s other arm, near his shoulder. The jailed
man now had both his hands immobilized. The third assistant policeman moved
forward, grabbed the man’s clothes and, with one jerk, ripped the garment.
Kassem stood and watched as the policemen tear the clothes completely off the
prisoner with a second jerk, leaving the man stark naked.

“Now,”
Kassem said to his assistant, who walked out of the cell and reappeared with a
hosepipe. The other assistants and Kassem moved away from the prisoner, thus
leaving the ill-fated naked man near the wall.

“Go,”
said Kassem, and a water jet fell on the prisoner at bullet speed, throwing him
against the wall. The prisoner fell down and attempted to stand up, but the
water jet was pointed at his feet, and he fell back on the floor every time he
tried to get up. The force of the water was too much; it was pointed at his
head, and then back to his feet, and then back to his head. His head repeatedly
hit the wall, and blood soon started oozing from the back of his skull. The
water onslaught continued for twenty minutes, and then it stopped after Kassem
raised his hand.

The
prisoner stood up, naked; distress showed on his body, which was now covered
with blood.

“Now,
are you going to tell me where Halim is?” asked Kassem, grinding his teeth.

“I
don’t know,” said the naked man.

Kassem
slapped him in the face and then grabbed him by the hair and banged his head
against the wall.

The
naked man grunted, more blood dripping down his neck, and the blood turned pink
upon its mixing with the water on his chest. One of the assistants kicked his
knee and threw a punch into his stomach.

“How
about now?” Kassem asked, rolling his eyes. “Where is Halim?”

“He
is in Kandahar, Afghanistan.”

Kassem
grimaced, bit his lower lip, and then threw a jab into the man’s stomach and
walked out of the cell.

Kassem
went back to the office of Mahmood, who was the chief administrator of the
secret jail. The air was hot in there; Kassem wiped the sweat from his brow as
he sat on the metal chair. His four assistants stood behind him.

“Is
your work done?” Mahmood asked with a chuckle.

Kassem
shook his head and rearranged his legs. “These bastards are tough. They don’t
tell the truth easily.”