The Lion's Game (28 page)

I leaned forward. “Excuse me? What opportunity?”

“Well, I hate to use the word bait, but—”

“Bad idea. Let’s drop that.”

He didn’t want to drop it and got back to the lion metaphor. “You have this rogue lion who’s eating villagers. And you have these hunters, who almost caught the lion. The lion is angry at the hunters, and he makes the fatal mistake of going after the hunters. Right?”

Nash seemed amused. Kate seemed to be considering it.

Koenig said, “We’ll put out a news story about John and Kate, and maybe even use your pictures, although we’d never do that normally. Khalil will think it’s standard to use names and photos of agents in America, and he won’t suspect a trap. Right?”

I said, “I don’t think that’s in my contract.”

Koenig continued, “We won’t and can’t use Ted’s name and photo because his agency would never allow that. George is married and has children, and we won’t take that risk. But you, John, and you, Kate, are single and you live alone—correct?”

Kate nodded.

I said, “Why don’t we shelve this idea for a while?”

“Because if you’re correct, Mr. Corey, and Khalil is still in this country and close to where we sit, he may be tempted to go for a target of opportunity before he moves on to his next target, which could be far bigger than what he’s already done. That’s why. I’m trying to head off another mass murder. Sometimes an individual has to put himself or herself in harm’s way for the greater safety and security of the nation. Don’t you agree?”

Kate said, “I agree. It’s worth a try.”

I’d gotten myself into a lose-lose situation. I said, “Great idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Nash observed, “And if John is wrong, and Khalil is out of the country, John only loses ten dollars. If Khalil is
in
the country, John wins ten dollars, but ... well, let’s not think about that.”

Ted Nash was really enjoying himself for the first time that I can remember. I mean, old stoic Ted was grinning at the prospect of John Corey getting his throat slashed by some psychotic camel jockey. Even Mr. Roberts was trying to suppress a grin. Funny what turns people on.

The meeting went on for a while longer. We were now into the public relations problems, which could be sticky with three hundred people dead on board the aircraft, people murdered on the ground, and the perp at large.

Jack Koenig concluded with, “The next few days are going to be very difficult. The news media are generally friendly toward us, as we saw in the World Trade Center case and the TWA case. But we have to control the news a little. Also, we have to go to Washington tomorrow and assure those people that we are on top of things. I want everyone to go home and get some sleep. Meet me at the US Airways shuttle at La Guardia for the first flight at seven A.M. George will stay at the Conquistador Club and supervise the crime scene.” He stood and we all stood with him. He said, “Despite the outcome of today’s assignment, you all did a fine job.” He surprised me by saying, “Pray for the dead.” We all shook hands, even Mr. Roberts. Kate, Ted, and I left.

As we walked through the twenty-eighth floor, I felt a lot of eyes on us.

Asad Khalil knew he had to cross the Delaware River at a bridge with no toll, and he had been instructed to continue on Highway 1 to the city of Trenton where there were two such bridges. He programmed the Satellite Navigator as he drove. It would have been easier if the man who had rented the car had programmed the Satellite Navigator, or asked the car rental agency to do it, but that was a dangerous convenience. Khalil’s last and only need for assistance, and last point where he could be traced, was Gamal Jabbar in the parking lot.

Khalil exited Highway 1 onto Interstate 95. This was a good road, much like the German Autobahn, he thought, except the vehicles moved more slowly here. The Interstate took him around the city of Trenton. He saw, near an exit, a brown sign saying WASHINGTON CROSSING STATE PARK. He recalled that his Russian training officer, Boris, a former KGB man who had lived in America, had said to him, “You will be crossing the Delaware River near where George Washington crossed two hundred years ago by boat. He didn’t want to pay a toll either.”

Khalil did not always understand Boris’ humor, but Boris was the one man in Tripoli who could be counted on to give good advice about America and Americans.

Khalil crossed the toll-free bridge into the state of Pennsylvania. He continued on I-95 heading south, as the Satellite Navigator instructed.

The sun was fully set now, and it was dark. Soon, he found that I-95 went through the city of Philadelphia. There was much traffic, and he had to slow down. He could see tall lighted buildings and at one point he drove parallel to the Delaware River, then he passed the airport.

This was not the fastest or most direct route to his destination, but it was a heavily traveled route, without tolls, and therefore the safest route for him.

Soon, the city was behind him, and the vehicles began moving more quickly.

He let his thoughts turn to other matters. His first thought was that this day of April 15 had begun well, and by now in Tripoli, the Great Leader knew that Asad Khalil had arrived in America and that hundreds had been slain to avenge this day, and that more would die in the coming days.

The Great Leader would be pleased, and soon all of Tripoli and all of Libya would know that a blow had been struck to redeem the nation’s honor. Malik would be awake, even at this early morning hour in Tripoli, and he would also know by now, and he would bless Asad Khalil and pray for him.

Khalil wondered if the Americans would retaliate against his country. It was difficult to guess what this American President would do. The Great Satan, Reagan, had at least been predictable. This President was sometimes weak, sometimes strong.

In any case, even retaliation would be good. It would awaken all of Libya and all of Islam.

Khalil turned on the radio and heard people talking about their sexual problems. He set the frequency to a news station and listened for ten minutes before the story of the aircraft came on. He listened carefully to the man speaking, then to other people speaking about what they called the tragedy. It was clear to Khalil that the authorities either did not know what happened, or they knew and they were hiding it. In either case, even if the police were in a high state of alert, the general population was not. This made things much easier for him.

Asad Khalil continued south on Route I-95. The dashboard clock told him it was 8:10 P.M. There was still traffic on the road, enough so that his car would not attract attention. He passed several exits that led to rest stops, brightly lit places in which he could see cars, people, and gasoline pumps. But his fuel gauge read over half full and he wasn’t hungry. He took the second liter bottle of water from the overnight bag, finished the water, then urinated in the bottle, screwed the cap back on and put the bottle under the passenger seat. He was, he realized, tired, but not so tired as to fall asleep. He’d slept well on the aircraft.

They had told him in Tripoli to try to drive through the night—that the more distance he put between himself and what he had left behind, the better his chances would be to escape detection. Soon, he would be in yet another jurisdiction—Delaware—and the more jurisdictions he was from New York and New Jersey, they’d told him, the less likely it would be that the local police would be alerted.

In any case, the police had no idea what they were looking for. Certainly they didn’t know to look for a black Mercury Marquis heading south on any one of many roads. Only a random stop by a patrol car would be a problem, and even then, Khalil knew that his papers were in order. He’d been stopped twice in Europe, where they always demanded to see a passport and at times a visa as well as all the papers for the rental car. Both times he had been sent on his way. Here, according to his people in Tripoli, they wanted to see only a driver’s license and a registration for the car, and they wanted to know if you had been drinking alcohol. His religion forbade alcohol, but he was not supposed to say this—say only, “No.” But again, he could not conceive of a situation with the police that would last too long before one of them was dead.

Also, as they had told him, the police usually drove alone, which he found somewhat incredible. Boris, who had spent five years in America, had given him instructions for when he was out of the taxi and driving on his own. Boris had said, “Stay in your car. The policeman will come to you and lean into your window or order you out of the car. One bullet to his head, and you are on your way. But he has radioed your license plate number to his headquarters before he stopped you, and he may have a video camera on his dashboard recording the event. So, you must abandon your automobile as soon as possible and find other transportation. You will have no contacts to help you, Asad. You are on your own until you reach the West Coast of America.”

Khalil had recalled replying, “I have been on my own since the fifteenth of April, nineteen eighty-six.”

At twenty minutes after 9:00 P.M., Khalil crossed into the state of Delaware. Within fifteen minutes, I-95 turned into the John F. Kennedy Memorial Highway, which was a toll road, so Khalil exited onto Route 40, which paralleled the Interstate south and west toward Baltimore. Within half an hour, he crossed into the state of Maryland.

Less than an hour later, he was on an Interstate that took him in a circle around the city of Baltimore, then back to I-95, which had no toll at this point. He continued south.

He had no idea why some roads and bridges were free while others had tolls. In Tripoli, they had no idea either. But his instructions had been clear—avoid toll booths.

Boris said, “They will, at some point, have a photograph of you at each place where you must pay.”

Khalil saw a large green and white sign that gave distances to various cities, and he saw the one he wanted: WASHINGTON, D.C., 35 MILES. He smiled. He was close to his destination.

It was nearly midnight, but there was still some traffic on this road that connected the two large cities. In fact, he thought, there was an amazing number of vehicles on the roads, even after dark. It was no wonder why the Americans needed so much oil. He had once read that the Americans burned more oil in one day than Libya did in one year. Soon they would suck the earth dry of all petroleum, then they could walk or ride camels. He laughed.

At 12:30 A.M., he intersected the road called the Capital Beltway and entered it going south. He looked at his odometer and saw he’d traveled nearly three hundred miles in six hours.

He exited the Beltway at an exit called Suitland Parkway, near Andrews Air Force Base, and drove along a road that passed through shopping malls and large stores. His Satellite Navigator actually gave him the names of some lodging places, but he had no intention of stopping at well-known places. As he cruised slowly, he took the plastic bottle of urine and threw it out the side window.

He drove by a few motels, then saw one that looked sufficiently unpleasing. A lighted sign said VACANCIES.

Khalil pulled into the parking lot, which was almost empty. He took off his tie, put on his glasses, and exited the Mercury, locking the door. He stretched for a second, then strode into the small motel office.

A young man behind the counter was sitting and watching television. The young man stood and said, “Yes?”

“I need a room for two days.”

“Eighty dollars, plus tax.”

Khalil put two fifty-dollar bills on the counter.

The clerk was used to cash guests and said, “I need a hundred dollars for a security deposit. You get it back when you check out.”

Khalil put two more fifties on the counter.

The young man gave him a registration card, and Khalil filled it out, using the name Ramon Vasquez. He put down the correct make and model of the automobile as he was told to do because it might be checked later when he was in his room. Khalil also put down the correct license plate number and pushed the card to the clerk.

The clerk gave him a key on a plastic tag, his change, and a receipt for his hundred dollars. He said, “Unit Fifteen. To your right when you walk out. Toward the end. Checkout is at eleven.”

“Thank you.”

Khalil turned and left the small office. He went to his car and drove to the unit marked 15 on the door.

He took his overnight bag, locked the car, and entered the room, turning on the light switch, which illuminated a lamp.

Khalil locked the door and bolted it. The room was furnished very simply, he noted, but there was a television, which he turned on.

He undressed and went into the bathroom, carrying his overnight bag, his bulletproof vest, and the two .40 caliber Glocks.

He relieved himself, then opened his overnight bag and took out the toiletries. He peeled his mustache off, then brushed his teeth and shaved. He showered quickly, his pistols on the sink nearby.

Khalil dried himself, took the overnight bag, pistols, and bulletproof vest and re-entered the bedroom. He dressed again, putting on clean undershorts, undershirt, a different tie, and socks from the overnight bag. He also put on the bulletproof vest. He got out the tube of toothpaste with gum for his mustache, and he stood in front of the bedroom mirror and reaffixed the mustache.

Khalil found the television remote control, sat on the bed, and changed channels until he found a news station. This was a taped replay of an earlier news broadcast, he understood, but it might be useful.

He watched for fifteen minutes, then the newsman said, “More on the tragedy at Kennedy Airport this afternoon.”

A scene of the airport came on the screen. He recognized a view of the security area off in the distance. He could see the tall tail and the dome of the 747 rising above the steel wall.