The Lion's Game (30 page)

I got into the taxi, which pulled away, and said to the driver, “You have a newspaper?”

He took one off the front seat and handed it back to me. It was in Russian or Greek. He laughed.

The day was going downhill already.

I said to the guy, “I’m late. Step on it. Capisce? Pedal to the metal.”

He showed no signs of breaking the law, so I took out my Fed creds and pushed them in front of his face. “Move it.”

The taxi accelerated. If I’d had my piece with me, I’d have put the muzzle in his ear, but he seemed to be with the program. I’m not a morning person, by the way.

Traffic was light at this hour on a Sunday morning, and we made good time up the FDR Drive and over the Triborough Bridge. When we got to La Guardia, I said, “US Airways terminal.”

He pulled up to the terminal, I paid him, and gave him his newspaper back, saying, “Here’s your tip.”

I got out and checked my watch. I had about ten minutes before flight time. This was cutting it close, but I had no luggage, and no gun to declare.

Outside the terminal, I noticed two Port Authority uniformed cops eyeing everyone as though they’d arrived in a car bomb. Obviously, the word was out, and I hoped everyone had a photo of Asad Khalil.

Inside the terminal at the ticket counter, the guy asked if I had a ticket or a reservation. Actually, I had lots of reservations about this flight, but this was not the place for flippancy. I said, “Corey, John.”

He found me on the computer, then printed my ticket. The guy asked for a photo ID, and I gave him my New York State driver’s license instead of my Fed creds, which always brings up the question of a gun. One reason I had chosen not to carry this morning was because I was running late and didn’t have time to mess around with filling out paperwork. Also, I was traveling with armed people who would protect me. I think. On the other hand, whenever you think you don’t need your gun, you do. But there was another, important reason I’d chosen not to carry. More on that later.

Anyway, the ticket guy asked me if I’d packed my own luggage, and I told him I had no luggage, and he gave me my ticket and said, “Have a good flight,” as though I had some input into the thing.

If I’d had more time, I would have replied, “May Allah give us a good tailwind.”

There was also a Port Authority cop at the metal detector and the line was slow. I walked through and my brass balls didn’t set the bell off.

As I moved with haste toward my gate, I ruminated over this increased security. On the one hand, a lot of cops were going to earn a lot of overtime in the next month or so, and the Mayor would have a fit and try to shake down Washington for Federal bucks, explaining that this was their fault.

On the other hand, these domestic transportation terminal operations rarely turned up who you were looking for, but you had to do it anyway. It made life difficult for fugitives trying to get around the country. But if Asad Khalil had half a brain, he’d be doing what most perps do who are on the run—hole up somewhere until the heat is off, or get a clean car and disappear on the highways. Or, of course, he may have already caught a Camel Air flight to Sandland yesterday.

I gave the gate agent my ticket, went down the jetway, and boarded the shuttle to Cuckooland.

The stewardess said, “You just made it.”

“My lucky day.”

“Light flight. Take any seat.”

“How about that guy’s seat over there?”

“Any
empty
seat, sir. Please be seated.”

I moved down the aisle and saw that the plane was half empty, and I took a seat by myself, away from Kate Mayfield and Ted Nash, who were sitting together, and Jack Koenig, who was across the aisle from them. I did, however, mumble, “Morning” as I made my way to the back of the aircraft. I envied George Foster for not having to make this flight.

I hadn’t thought to grab a free magazine at the gate, and someone had swiped the magazines in the pockets in front of me, so I sat there and read the emergency evacuation card until the plane took off.

Halfway through the flight, while I was dozing, Koenig walked by on his way to the lav and threw the front section of the Sunday
Times
on my lap.

I cleared my mind and read the headline, which said,
Three Hundred Dead on JFK Flight
. That was an eye-opener on a Sunday morning.

I read the
Times
story, which was sketchy and a little inaccurate, a result, no doubt, of the spinmeisters at work. The bottom line was that the Federal Aviation Agency and the National Transportation Safety Board were not releasing many details, except to say that unidentified toxic fumes had overcome the passengers and crew. There was no mention that the autopilot had actually landed the aircraft, no mention of any murders or terrorists, and for sure no mention of the Conquistador Club. And, thank God, no mention of anyone named John Corey.

Tomorrow’s news, however, would be more specific. The details would be spooned out in manageable doses, like cod liver oil with a little honey, a day at a time, until the public got used to it and then had its attention distracted by something else.

Anyway, the one-hour flight was uneventful, except for a bad cup of coffee. As we came into Ronald Reagan National Airport, we followed the Potomac River, and I had a spectacular view of the Jefferson Memorial with all the cherry blossoms in bloom, the Mall, the Capitol, and all those other white stone buildings that project power, power, power. It occurred to me for the first time that I worked for some of those people down there.

Anyway, we landed and deplaned on schedule. I noticed that Koenig was wearing a Federal blue suit and carried a briefcase. Nash had on yet another continental-cut suit and also carried a briefcase, no doubt handcrafted of yak hide by Tibetan freedom fighters in the Himalayas. Kate was also wearing a blue suit, but it looked better on her than on Jack. She also carried a briefcase, and I had the thought that I was supposed to carry a briefcase. My attire for the day was a dove gray suit that my ex bought me from Barneys. With tax and tip, it probably ran close to two thousand bucks. She has that kind of money. It comes from defending drug dealers, hit men, white-collar criminals, and other high-income felons. So why do I wear this suit? I wear it, I think, as a cynical statement. Also, it fits very well and looks expensive.

But back to the airport. A car and driver met us and took us on a ride to FBI Headquarters, aka the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

There wasn’t a lot of chatter in the car, but finally Jack Koenig, sitting up front with the driver, turned to us and said, “I apologize if this meeting interferes with your worship services.”

The FBI, of course, pays lip service to church attendance, and maybe it wasn’t just lip service. I couldn’t imagine my old bosses saying anything like that, and I was at a loss for a reply.

Kate replied, “That’s all right,” whatever that means.

Nash mumbled something that sounded like he was giving us all a dispensation.

I’m not a habitual churchgoer, but I said, “J. Edgar is up there watching over us.”

Koenig shot me an unpleasant look and turned back to the front.

Long day. Long, long day.

At 5:30 A.M., Asad Khalil rose, took a wet towel from the bathroom and wiped all the surfaces where he might have left fingerprints. He prostrated himself on the floor, said his morning prayers, then dressed, and left the motel room. He put his overnight bag in the Mercury, and walked back to the motel office, carrying the wet towel.

The young desk clerk was sleeping in his chair and the television was still on.

Khalil came around the counter with the towel-wrapped Glock in his hand. He put the pistol to the man’s head and pulled the trigger. The young clerk and the wheeled chair flew into the counter. Khalil pushed the young man’s body beneath the counter and took his wallet from his hip pocket, then took the money out of the cash drawer. He found the stack of registration slips and receipt copies, and put them all in his pocket, then wiped his key tag with the wet towel and returned his key to the keyboard.

He looked up at the security camera, which he’d noticed earlier and which had recorded not only his arrival but also the entire murder and robbery. He followed the wire to a small back room where he found the video recorder. He pulled the tape out and put it in his pocket, then went back to the counter where he found an electrical switch marked MOTEL SIGN. He shut it off, then shut off the lights in the office, walked out the door, and went back to his car.

There was a damp fog hanging in the air, which obscured everything beyond a few meters. Khalil pulled out of the parking lot without headlights and didn’t turn them on until he was fifty meters down the road.

He re-traced his route and approached the Capital Beltway. Before he entered, he pulled into the big parking lot of a strip mall, found a storm sewer drain, and pushed the registration cards, receipts, and video cassette through the metal grate. He took the cash out of the clerk’s wallet and threw the wallet into the drain.

He got back into his car and entered the Capital Beltway.

It was six in the morning and a faint dusk came out of the east illuminating the fog. There was little traffic on the road on this Sunday morning, and neither did Khalil see any police cars.

He followed the Beltway south, then it curved west and crossed the Potomac River, then continued west until it went north and crossed the Potomac again. He was circling the city of Washington, like a lion, he thought, stalking his prey.

Khalil programmed the Satellite Navigator with the address he needed in Washington and exited the Beltway at Pennsylvania Avenue.

He continued on Pennsylvania Avenue, heading directly into the heart of the enemy capital.

At 7:00 A.M. he drove up to Capitol Hill. The fog had lifted, and the huge white-domed Capitol Building sat in the morning sunshine. Khalil drove around the Capitol, then stopped and parked near the southeast side. He removed his camera from the overnight bag and took photos of the sunlit building. He noticed a young couple about fifty meters away doing the same. This photography was not necessary, he knew, and he could have passed the time elsewhere, but he thought these photographs would amuse his compatriots in Tripoli.

He could see police cars within the gated area around the Capitol Building, but none on the street around him.

At 7:25 A.M., he got back in his car and drove the few blocks to Constitution Avenue. He drove slowly down the tree-lined street of town houses and located number 415. A car was parked in the narrow driveway, and he saw a light on in the third-floor window. He kept going, circled around the block, and parked his car a half block from the house.

Khalil put both Glocks in his jacket pockets, and waited, watching the house.

At 7:45 A.M., a middle-aged man and woman came out the front door. The lady was well dressed and the man wore the blue uniform of an Air Force general. Khalil smiled.

They had told him in Tripoli that General Terrance Waycliff was a man of habit, and his habit was to attend religious services at the National Cathedral every Sunday morning. The General would almost always attend the 8:15 service, but had been known to attend the 9:30 service. This morning it was the 8:15 service, and Khalil was pleased that he didn’t have to waste another hour somewhere.

Khalil watched the General escort his wife to their car. The man was tall and slender, and though his hair was gray, he walked like a younger man. In 1986, Khalil knew, General Waycliff had been Captain Waycliff, and the radio call sign on his F-111 had been Remit 22. Captain Waycliff’s fighter-bomber had been one of the four in the attack squadron that had bombed Al Azziziyah. Captain Waycliff’s weapons officer had been Colonel—then Captain—William Hambrecht, who had met his fate in London in January. Now General Waycliff would meet a similar fate in Washington.

Khalil watched as the General opened the door for his wife, then went around, got into the driver’s side, and backed out of the driveway.

Khalil could have killed both of them right there and then on this quiet Sunday morning, but he chose to do it another way.

Khalil straightened his tie, then exited and locked his car.

He walked to the front door of the General’s house and pushed the doorbell. He heard chimes ringing inside the house.

He heard footsteps and kept back from the door so his face could be seen though the peephole. Khalil heard the metallic scrape of what he thought was a chain being put on the door, then the door opened a crack, and he could see the hanging chain and a young woman’s face. She started to say something, but Khalil slammed his shoulder into the door. The chain snapped and the door swung in, knocking the woman to the floor. Khalil was inside in a second and closed the door behind him as he pulled his pistol. “Silence.”

The young woman lay on the marble floor, a look of terror in her eyes.

He motioned her to her feet and she stood. He regarded her a moment. She was a small woman, dressed in a robe, barefoot, and her complexion was dark. This was the housekeeper, according to his information, and no one else lived in the house. To be certain, he asked, “Who is home?”

She replied in accented English, “General home.”

Khalil smiled. “No. General is not home. Is General’s children home?”

She shook her head, and he could see she was trembling.

Khalil smelled coffee coming from somewhere and said to her, “Kitchen.”

She turned hesitatingly and walked through the long foyer of the town house to the kitchen in the rear, Khalil behind her.

Khalil looked around the big kitchen and saw two plates and two coffee cups on the round table near a big, curved window in the rear.

Khalil said to her, “Basement. Downstairs.” He motioned down.