The Lion's Game (38 page)

Jean concluded her talk with, “We’ll stay closely in touch with the ATTF in New York. All information will be shared by us with you, and by you with us. Information is like gold in our business—everyone wants it, and no one wants to share it. So let’s say that we’re not sharing—we’re borrowing from one another, and all accounts will be settled at the end.”

I really couldn’t resist a zinger, and I said, “Ma’am, you have my assurance that if Asad Khalil turns up dead in the woods in Central Park, we’ll let you know.”

Ted Nash laughed. I was beginning to like this guy. In this milieu, we had more in common with each other than we had in common with the nice and neat people in this building. There’s a depressing thought.

Bob asked us, “Any questions?”

I asked, “Where do the
X-Files
people hang out?”

Koenig said, “Stow it, Corey.”

“Yes, sir.”

Anyway, it was nearly 6:00 P.M., and I figured we were through since we weren’t told to bring toothbrushes. But no, we all moved to a big conference room with a table the length of a football field.

About thirty people drifted in, most of whom we’d already met today at various stations of the cross.

The Deputy Director of Counterterrorism made an appearance, gave a five-minute sermon, then ascended to heaven or somewhere.

We spent almost two hours in conference, mostly rehashing the ten-hour day, exchanging gold nuggets, and coming up with a plan of attack, and so forth.

Each of us got a thick dossier containing photos, contact names and numbers, and even recaps of what was said today, which must have been tape-recorded, transcribed, edited, and typed as the day progressed. Truly, this was a world-class organization.

Kate was kind enough to put all my papers in her attaché case, which now bulged. She advised me, “Always bring an attaché case. There are always handouts.” She added, “An attaché case is a tax-deductible item.”

The big conference ended, and everyone filed out into the corridor. We did a little chitchat here and there, but basically it was over. I could almost smell the air on Pennsylvania Avenue. Car, airport, 9:00 P.M. shuttle, 10:00 P.M. at La Guardia, home before the eleven o’clock news. I remembered some leftover Chinese food in the fridge and tried to determine how old it was.

Just then, a guy in a blue suit named Bob or Bill came up to us and asked if we’d like to follow him and go to see the Deputy Director.

This was the proverbial straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back, and I replied, “No.”

But “no” wasn’t an option.

The good news was that Ted Nash was not invited into the inner sanctum, but he didn’t seem put off. He said, “I have to get to Langley tonight.”

We all hugged, promised to write and stay in touch, and blew kisses as we parted. With any luck, I’d never see Ted Nash again.

So, Jack, Kate, and I with our escort got on the elevator and went up to the seventh floor and were shown into a dark, paneled office with a big desk, behind which was the Deputy Director of Counterterrorist operations.

The sun was gone from the heavens, and the room was lit by a single green-shaded lamp on the Deputy Director’s desk. The effect of the dim lighting at waist level was that no one could see anyone’s face clearly. This was really dramatic, like a scene in a Mafia flick where don Goombah decides who gets whacked.

Anyway, we shook hands all around—hands were easy to find near the lamp—then we sat.

The Deputy Director went through a little spiel about yesterday and today, then got to tomorrow. He was brief. He said, “The ATTF in New York metro is in a unique position to work this case. We won’t interfere, and we won’t send you anyone you don’t ask for. At least for now. This department will, of course, take on the responsibility for everything outside of your operational area. We’ll keep you well informed on anything that turns up. We’ll try to work closely with the CIA, and we’ll brief you on that as well. I suggest you proceed as though Khalil is still in New York. Turn the place upside down and inside out. Lean heavily on your sources and offer money when you need to. I’ll authorize a budget of one hundred thousand dollars for buying information. The Justice Department will offer a one-million-dollar reward for the arrest of Asad Khalil. That should put some heat on him vis-à-vis his compatriots in the U.S. Questions?”

Jack said, “No, sir.”

“Good. Oh, and one more thing.” He looked at me, then at Kate. He said, “Think about how you might lure Asad Khalil into a trap.”

I replied, “You mean think about me using myself as bait.”

“I didn’t say that. I just said think of the best way to lure Asad Khalil into a trap. Whatever the best way is, you’ll think of it.”

Kate said, “John and I will talk it over.”

“Good.” He stood. “Thank you for giving up your Sunday.” He added, “Jack, I’d like to speak to you a moment.”

We pressed the flesh again, and Kate and I were out. We were escorted to the elevator by the guy in the blue suit, and he wished us good luck and good hunting.

In the lobby, we were met by a security guy, who invited us to sit. Kate and I sat, but said nothing.

I didn’t know or care what Jack and the Deputy Director were talking about, as long as it wasn’t me—and I was certain they had more important things to discuss than me or my behavior. Actually, I wasn’t that bad today, and I had a few gold stars for almost saving the game yesterday. But that only goes so far.

I looked at Kate, and she looked at me. Here, in the Ministry of Love, even face crimes were noted, so we didn’t reveal anything except steadfast optimism. I didn’t even look at her crossed legs.

Ten minutes later Jack appeared and informed us, “I’m staying the night. You two go on, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” He added, “Brief George in the morning. I’ll assemble all the teams tomorrow at some point, and we’ll get everyone up-to-date, and see if they’ve turned up any leads, then we’ll decide how to proceed.”

Kate said, “John and I will stop at Federal Plaza tonight and see what’s happening.”

“Good,” Jack said. “But don’t burn out. This will be a long race, and as Mr. Corey says, ‘Second place is the first loser.’” He looked at us and pronounced, “You both did very well today.” He said to me, “I hope you have a better appreciation of the FBI.”

“Absolutely. Great bunch of guys and girls. Women. I’m not sure about Ben, though.”

“Ben is fine,” Jack said. “It’s Ted you should keep an eye on.”

My goodness.

So, we all shook hands and off we went, Kate and I with the security guy down into the basement garage, where a car whisked us to the airport.

In the car, I asked, “How did I do?”

“Borderline.”

“I thought I did fine.”

“That’s scary.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re very trying.”

Asad Khalil saw a sign that said WELCOME TO SOUTH CAROLINA—THE PALMETTO STATE.

He didn’t understand what that last line meant, but he understood the next sign that said DRIVE CAREFULLY—STATE LAWS STRICTLY ENFORCED.

He looked at his dashboard and saw that it was 4:10 P.M. The temperature remained at twenty-five degrees Celsius.

Forty minutes later, he saw the exits for Florence and for I-20 to Columbia and Atlanta. He had memorized parts of a road map of the South, so that he could give false but plausible destinations for anyone who asked. Now that he was passing the Interstate highway for Columbia and Atlanta, his next false destination would be Charleston or Savannah.

In any case, he had a good road map in the glove box, and he had the Satellite Navigator, if he needed to refresh his memory.

Khalil noticed that the traffic was heavier around this city of Florence, and he welcomed the other vehicles after so many miles of feeling exposed.

Strangely, he’d seen no police vehicles except the one that appeared at the worst possible moment when the four whores had come up beside him.

He knew, however, that there were unmarked police cars on the road, though he never noticed such a vehicle with police in it.

His driving had become more assured since leaving New Jersey, and he was able to mimic the driving habits of those around him. There were an amazing number of old people driving, he’d noticed—something one rarely saw in Europe or Libya. The elderly drove very badly.

There were also many young people with cars—again, something he rarely saw in Europe or Libya. The young, too, drove badly, but in a different way than the elderly.

Also, many women drove in America. There were women drivers in Europe, but not as many as here. Incredibly, he’d seen women driving men here, a thing he rarely saw in Europe, and never saw in Libya where almost no women drove at all. The women drivers, he decided, were competent but sometimes erratic, and often aggressive—like the whores who had been driving in North Carolina.

Asad Khalil believed that American men had lost control of their women. He recalled the words of the Koran, “Men have authority over women because Allah has made the one superior to the other, and because men spend their wealth to maintain women. Good women are obedient. They guard their unseen parts because Allah has guarded them. As for those women from whom you fear disobedience, admonish them and send them to beds apart, and beat them. Then, if they obey you, do nothing further against them.”

Khalil couldn’t comprehend how Western women had gained so much power and influence, reversing the natural order of God and nature, but he suspected that it had to do with democracy, where each vote was counted equally.

For some reason, his mind returned to the aircraft, to the time when it had been moved to the security area. He thought again of the man and the woman he had seen, both wearing badges, both giving orders as though they were equal. His mind could not grasp the idea of two people of the opposite sex working in concert, speaking to one another, touching, perhaps even sharing meals. And more amazing was the fact that the female was a police officer and was undoubtedly armed. He wondered how the parents of these women had allowed their daughters to be so brazen and masculine.

He recalled his first trip to Europe—Paris—and thought back at how shocked and offended he had been at the looseness and boldness of the women. Over the years, he had become almost accustomed to European women, but every time he went back to Europe—and now in America—he was newly offended and incredulous.

Western women walked alone, spoke to strange men, worked in shops and offices, exposed their flesh, and even argued with men. Khalil recalled the scripture stories of Sodom and Gomorrah, and of Babylon, before the coming of Islam. He knew that these cities had fallen because of the iniquities and sexual looseness of the women. Surely all of Europe and America would someday suffer the same fate. How could their civilization survive if the women behaved like whores, or like slaves who had overturned their masters?

Whatever God these people believed in, or did not believe in, had abandoned them, and would one day destroy them. But for now, for some reason he could not fathom, these immoral nations were powerful. Therefore, it fell to him, Asad Khalil, and others like him to deliver the punishment of his God, until their own God, the one God of Abraham and Isaac, delivered salvation or death.

Khalil continued on, ignoring the feeling of thirst that was growing in him.

He turned on the radio and scanned the frequencies. Some frequencies had a strange music, which a man on the radio called country-western. Some frequencies had music such as he’d heard on the radio north of Washington. A large number of frequencies were broadcasting what Khalil identified as Christian services or religious music. One man was reading from the Christian testament and the Hebrew testament. The man’s accent and tonation was so odd that Khalil would not have understood a word he was saying if not for the fact that he recognized many of the passages. He listened for a while, but the man would often stop reading the scripture, then begin talking about the scripture, and Khalil could understand only half of what he was saying. This was interesting, but confusing. He changed the frequencies until he found a news station.

The newsman spoke understandable English, and Khalil listened to twenty minutes of the man speaking about rapes, robberies, and murders, then about politics, then about the news of the world.

Finally, the man said, “The National Transportation Safety Board and the FAA have issued a joint statement regarding the tragic incident at John F. Kennedy Airport in New York. According to the statement, there were no survivors of the tragedy. Federal officials say that the pilots may have been able to land the aircraft before they succumbed to toxic fumes, or they may have programmed the aircraft’s flight computer to make an unassisted landing when they realized they were being overcome by fumes. FAA officials are not saying if there are any recorded radio transmissions from the pilots, but one unidentified official is calling the pilots heroes for getting the aircraft on the ground without endangering the safety of anyone at or near the airport. The FAA and the Safety Board are calling the tragedy an accident, but the investigation of the cause is continuing. Again, it is now official—there were no survivors on Trans-Continental Flight One-Seven-Five from Paris, and the death toll is estimated at three hundred and fourteen, crew and passengers. More on this story as it develops.”

Khalil turned off the radio. Certainly, by this time, he thought, the technologically advanced Americans knew all there was to know about what happened on board Flight 175. He wondered why they were delaying telling the full truth, and he suspected that it was because of national pride as well as the natural tendency of intelligence agencies to hide their own mistakes.

In any case, if the radio news was not reporting a terrorist attack, then his photograph was not yet being broadcast on the television.