Authors: Nelson DeMille
The Lion's Game (41 page)
“Deluxe.”
She gave him a registration form and pen and said, “How would you like to pay for that, sir?”
“American Express.” He took out his wallet and handed her the credit card as he filled out the registration form.
Boris had told him that the better the establishment, the fewer problems there would be, especially if he used the credit card. He hadn’t wanted to leave a paper trail, but Boris assured him that if he used the card sparingly, it would be safe.
The woman handed him a credit card slip with the impression of his card on it and gave him back his American Express card. He signed the slip and pocketed his card.
Khalil completed the registration form, leaving blank the spaces concerning his vehicle, which they had told him in Tripoli he could ignore in the finer establishments. He was also told that, unlike Europe, there was no space for his passport number on the registration form, and the clerk would not even ask to see it. Apparently, it was an insult to be taken for a foreigner, no matter how foreign one looked. Or perhaps, as Boris said, “The only passport you need in America is American Express.”
In any case, the desk clerk glanced at his registration form and asked nothing further of him. She said, “Welcome to the Sheraton, Mr....”
“Bay-dear,” he pronounced.
“Mr. Bay-dear. Here’s your electronic keycard to Room One-Nineteen, ground floor, to your right as you leave the lobby.” She went on in a monotone, “This is your guest folder and here’s your room number on the folder. The bar and restaurant are right through that door, we have a fitness center and a swimming pool, checkout time is eleven A.M., breakfast is served in the main dining room from six to eleven A.M., room service is available from six A.M. to midnight, the dining room is closing for dinner shortly, the bar and lounge are open until one A.M., and light snacks are available. There is a mini-bar in your room. Would you like a wake-up call?”
Khalil understood her accent, but barely understood all this useless information. He did understand wake-up calls and said, “Yes, I have a flight at nine A.M., so perhaps six A.M. would be good.”
She was looking at him, openly, unlike a Libyan woman, who avoided eye contact with men. He maintained eye contact with her, as he was told to do to avoid suspicion, but also to see if she showed any hint that she knew who he was. But she seemed completely unaware of his true identity.
She said, “Yes, sir, wake-up call at six A.M. Would you like express checkout?”
He had been told to say yes if asked that question, that this type of checkout would mean he did not have to return to the desk. He replied, “Yes, please.”
“A copy of your bill will be placed under your door by seven A.M. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, thank you.”
“Have a pleasant stay.”
“Thank you.” He smiled, took his folder, turned and left the lobby.
This had gone well, better than the last time he checked into the motel outside of Washington, he reflected, and had to kill the desk clerk. He smiled again.
Asad Khalil got into his car and drove to the door marked 119 where a parking space sat empty. He retrieved his overnight bag, got out of the car, locked it, and went to the door. He put his keycard into the slot, and the door lock hummed and clicked as a green light came on, reminding him of the Conquistador Club.
He went inside and closed and bolted the door behind him.
Khalil inspected the room, closets, and bathroom, which were clean and modern, but perhaps too comfortable for his taste. He preferred austere surroundings, especially for this Jihad. As a religious man once told him, “Allah will hear you as well if you pray in a mosque with a full belly or the desert with an empty belly—but if you want to hear Allah, go hungry to the desert.”
That advice notwithstanding, Khalil was hungry. He’d had very little to eat since the day before he turned himself into the American Embassy in Paris, which was nearly a week ago.
He glanced at the room service menu, but decided not to invite another look at his face. Very few people had seen him up close, and most of them were dead.
He opened the mini-bar and found a can of orange juice, a plastic bottle of Vittel water, a jar of mixed nuts, and a bar of Toblerone chocolate, which he always enjoyed in Europe.
He sat in the armchair facing the door, still fully dressed with both Glocks in his pockets. He ate and drank slowly.
As he ate, he thought back to his short stay at the American Embassy in Paris. They had been suspicious of him, but not hostile. A military officer and a man in civilian clothes had initially questioned him, and the next day, two other men—who had identified themselves only as Philip and Peter—had arrived from America, telling him they would escort him safely to Washington. Khalil knew this was a lie on both counts—they would go to New York, not Washington, and neither Philip nor Peter would arrive safely.
The night before his departure, they had drugged him, as Boutros said they would, and Khalil had allowed that, so as not to arouse suspicion. He wasn’t certain what they had done to him while he was drugged, but it was of no importance. He had been drugged by Libyan Intelligence in Tripoli and questioned, to see if he was able to withstand the effects of these so-called truth drugs. He had passed this test with no problems.
He had been told that the Americans would probably not subject him to a lie detector test in the embassy—the diplomats wanted him out of the embassy as soon as possible. But if asked to take such a test, he should refuse and demand to go to America or to be released. In any case, the Americans had acted predictably and gotten him out of the embassy and out of Paris as quickly as possible.
As Malik had said, “You are wanted for questioning by the French, the Germans, the Italians, and the British. The Americans know this and want you for themselves only. They will get you out of Europe as soon as possible. They almost always take the most sensitive cases to New York, so they can deny that they are holding a defector or a spy in Washington. There are, I think, other psychological and perhaps practical reasons why they go to New York. Eventually, they intend to take you to Washington—but I think you can get there without their help.”
Everyone in the room had laughed at Malik’s humor. Malik was very eloquent, and also used humor to make his point. Khalil did not always appreciate the humor of Malik or Boris, but the humor was at the expense of the Americans or the Europeans, so he tolerated it.
Malik had also said, “If, however, our friend who works for Trans-Continental Airlines in Paris informs us that you
are
going to Washington, then Haddad, your traveling companion, who is in need of oxygen, will be on
that
flight. The procedures at Dulles Airport will be the same—the aircraft will be towed to a security area, and you will proceed as though you are in New York.” Malik had given him a rendezvous point at Dulles Airport where he would meet his taxi and driver, who would take him to his rental car, and from there—after silencing the driver—he would stay in a motel until Sunday morning, then go into the city and visit General Waycliff before or after church.
are
going to Washington, then Haddad, your traveling companion, who is in need of oxygen, will be on
that
flight. The procedures at Dulles Airport will be the same—the aircraft will be towed to a security area, and you will proceed as though you are in New York.” Malik had given him a rendezvous point at Dulles Airport where he would meet his taxi and driver, who would take him to his rental car, and from there—after silencing the driver—he would stay in a motel until Sunday morning, then go into the city and visit General Waycliff before or after church.
Asad Khalil had been impressed with the thoroughness and cleverness of his intelligence service. They had thought of everything, and they had alternate plans if the Americans changed their methods of operation. More importantly, his Libyan operation officers had stressed to him that even the best of plans could not be carried out without a true Islamic freedom fighter, such as Asad Khalil, nor without the help of Allah.
Boris, of course, had told him that the plan was mostly Boris’, and that Allah had nothing to do with the plan or its success. But Boris
had
agreed that Asad Khalil was an exceptional agent. In fact, Boris had said to the Libyan Intelligence officers, “If you had more men like Asad Khalil, you wouldn’t fail so much.”
had
agreed that Asad Khalil was an exceptional agent. In fact, Boris had said to the Libyan Intelligence officers, “If you had more men like Asad Khalil, you wouldn’t fail so much.”
Boris was digging his own grave with his mouth, Khalil reflected, but he was fairly certain that at some point Boris knew this, which was why he was drunk so often.
Boris had needed a steady supply of women and vodka, which was supplied to him, and money, which was sent to a Swiss bank for Boris’ family. The Russian, even when intoxicated, was very clever and very helpful, and he was smart enough to know that he was not going to leave Tripoli alive. He once said to Malik, “If I have an accident here, promise me you will ship my body home.”
Malik had replied, “You will have no accident here, my friend. We will watch you closely.”
To which Boris had replied, “
Yob vas
,” which in English meant, Fuck you, and which Boris used too often.
Yob vas
,” which in English meant, Fuck you, and which Boris used too often.
Khalil finished his small meal and turned on the television, sipping the Vittel from the bottle. When he finished the water, he put the empty plastic bottle in his overnight bag.
It was now almost 11:00 P.M., and while he waited for the 11 o’clock news, he used the remote control to switch channels. On one channel, two bare-breasted women were in a small pool of steaming and churning water and were becoming intimate with each other. Khalil switched to another channel, then switched back to see the two women.
He watched, transfixed, as the women—one blond, one dark-haired—stood in this hot water and caressed each other. A third woman, an African, appeared at the edge of this whirling pool. She was completely naked, but some sort of electronic distortion was covering her pudenda as she walked down a set of stairs into the pool.
The three women said very little, Khalil noticed, but laughed too much as they splashed water on one another. Khalil thought they acted like half-wits, but he continued to watch.
A fourth woman with red hair was walking backwards down the stairs so that he could see her bare buttocks and back as she lowered herself into the water. Soon, all four women were rubbing and stroking one another, kissing and embracing. Khalil sat very still, but he realized that he had become aroused, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
He understood that he should not be watching this, that this was the worst sort of Western decadence, that all the holy scriptures of the Hebrews, Christians, and Muslims defined these acts as unnatural and unholy. And yet, these women, who were touching one another in an unclean way, aroused him and caused his mind to have lustful and impure thoughts.
He pictured himself naked in the pool with them.
He came out of his reverie and noticed on the digital clock that it was already four minutes past eleven. As he began switching channels, he cursed himself, cursed his weakness, and cursed the satanic forces that were loose in this accursed land.
He found a news program and stopped.
A female newscaster was saying, “This is the man who authorities say is a prime suspect in an unnamed terrorist attack in the United States—”
A color photo captioned ASAD KHALIL came on the screen, and Asad Khalil stood quickly and knelt in front of the television, studying the photo. He had never seen this color photo of himself, and suspected that it had been taken secretly in the Paris Embassy, while he was being interrogated. In fact, he noticed that the suit was the same as the one he wore now, and the tie was the one he had worn in Paris, but which he’d changed.
The woman said, “Please look at this photograph carefully, and notify the authorities if you see this man. He is considered armed and dangerous, and no one should attempt to confront or detain him. Call the police, or call the FBI. Here are two toll-free numbers you can call—” Two phone numbers came on the screen below his photo. “—the first number is for anonymous tips that you can leave on a tape recorder, the second number is the hotline manned by FBI personnel. Both numbers are open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Also, the Justice Department has offered a
one-million
-dollar reward for information that leads to the arrest of this suspect.”
one-million
-dollar reward for information that leads to the arrest of this suspect.”
Another photograph of Asad Khalil came on the screen, but with a slightly different expression on his face, and again Khalil recognized it as a Paris Embassy photograph.
The newswoman was saying, “Again, please study this photograph—Federal authorities are asking your help in locating this man, Asad Khalil. He speaks English, Arabic, and some French, German, and Italian. He is suspected of being an international terrorist, and he may now be in the U.S. We have no further information on this individual, but we will be reporting to you as soon as we have more details.”
All the while, Asad Khalil’s face stared out of the television at Asad Khalil.
Another news story came on, and Khalil pushed the Mute button, then went to the wall mirror, put on his bifocals, and stared at himself.
Asad Khalil, the Libyan on television, had black, swept-back hair. Hefni Badr, the Egyptian in Jacksonville, Florida, had grayish hair, parted to the side.
Asad Khalil on television had dark eyes. Hefni Badr in Jacksonville wore bifocals, and his eyes looked blurred to an observer.
Asad Khalil on television was clean-shaven. Hefni Badr wore a graying mustache.
Asad Khalil on television was not smiling. Hefni Badr in the mirror
was
smiling, because he did not look like Asad Khalil.
was
smiling, because he did not look like Asad Khalil.
He said his prayers and went to bed.
I made it to the 8:00 A.M. meeting on the twenty-eighth floor of Federal Plaza, feeling virtuous about not having spent the night with Kate Mayfield. In fact, I was able to look her right in the eye and say, “Good morning.”
She returned my greeting, and I thought I heard the word “schmuck,” but maybe I was just feeling like one.
We stood around this long conference table in a windowless room and made chitchat until the meeting was called to order.
The walls of the room were adorned with blown-up photos of Asad Khalil, in various shots taken in Paris. There were also two photos labeled YUSEF HADDAD. One was subtitled MORGUE SHOT, the other PASSPORT PHOTO. The morgue shot actually looked better than the passport photo.
There were also a few photos of the February defector, whose name turned out to be Boutros Dharr, and whose status was dead.
I have this theory that all these guys were mean because they had silly names—like a boy named Sue.
Anyway, I counted ten coffee cups and ten legal pads on the table and deduced that there would be ten people at this meeting. On each legal pad was written a name, and I further deduced that I was supposed to sit in front of the pad with my name. So I sat. There were four carafes of coffee on the table, and I poured myself some coffee, then pushed the carafe across the table to Kate, who was sitting directly opposite me.
She was dressed in a blue pinstripe business suit today, looking a little more severe than she’d looked in her blue blazer and knee-length skirt on Saturday. Her lipstick was a sort of coral pink. She smiled at me.
I smiled at her. Anyway, back to the Anti-Terrorist Task Force meeting.
Everyone was taking their seat now. At one end of the table was Jack Koenig, very recently arrived from D.C. and wearing the same suit he’d worn yesterday.
At the other end of the table was Captain David Stein, NYPD, the co-commander of the New York Anti-Terrorist Task Force. Stein and Koenig could both think they were sitting at the head of the table.
Sitting to my left was Mike O’Leary of the NYPD Intelligence Unit, and I noted that the name on his pad was the same as his name, which made me optimistic about the Police Intelligence Unit.
To my immediate right was Special Agent Alan Parker, FBI, ATTF. Alan is our public relations guy. He’s in his mid-twenties, but looks about thirteen. He’s a world-class bullshitter, and that’s what we needed in this case.
To Parker’s right, near Koenig, was Captain Henry Wydrzynski, Deputy Chief of Detectives with the Port Authority police. I’d met this guy a few times when I was an NYPD detective, and he seemed like an okay guy, except for his name, which looked like the third line of an eye chart. I mean, somebody should buy this guy a vowel.
Across from me were Kate and three other people—at the far end, next to Captain Stein, was Robert Moody, NYPD Chief of Detectives. Moody was the NYPD’s first black Chief of Detectives, and was, in fact, my former boss, before my near death and resuscitation. I don’t have to tell you that being the commanding officer of a few thousand guys like me is not an easy job. I’ve met Chief Moody on a few occasions, and he seems to not dislike me, which is as good as it gets with me and bosses.
Sitting to Kate’s left was Sergeant Gabriel Haytham, NYPD/ATTF, an Arab gent.
Sitting next to Gabriel, to Koenig’s right, was an unknown man, but it was only his name that was unknown. I had no doubt that this nattily dressed gentleman was CIA. It’s funny how I can spot them; they affect this sort of slightly bored nonchalance, they spend too much money on clothes, and they always look like they have to be someplace more important than where they are.
In any case, I had been feeling a little empty since I didn’t have Ted Nash to kick around any longer. I was feeling better now that I might have someone to take his place.
Regarding Mr. Ted Nash, I pictured him packing his silk undies for his trip to Paris. I also pictured him back in my life at some point, as I said. I recalled Koenig’s words—
It’s Ted you should keep an eye on
. Jack Koenig did not make statements like that lightly.
It’s Ted you should keep an eye on
. Jack Koenig did not make statements like that lightly.
Also missing was George Foster, whose job it was to mind the store. He was at the Conquistador Club and would probably stay there for a long time. George’s assignment, in the parlance of criminal investigation, was to act as the “Host,” or the coordinator of the crime scene, he being a witness to, and actual participant in, the events. Better George than me, I guess.
Aside from Nash and Foster, also missing from this group was Nick Monti. Thus, Jack Koenig began the meeting by proposing a moment of silence for Nick, as well as Phil, Peter, the two Federal Marshals on board Flight 175, Andy McGill of the Port Authority Emergency Service unit, Nancy Tate, and the duty officer, Meg Collins, and all the victims of Flight 175.
We did the moment of silence, and Jack called the meeting to order. It was exactly 8:00 A.M.
Jack first introduced the gentleman to his left by saying, “With us this morning is Edward Harris of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
No shit. I mean, all Jack had to say was, “This is Edward Harris from you-know-where.”
Jack did add, “Mr. Harris is with the agency’s Counterterrorism section.”
Harris acknowledged the intro by moving his pencil back and forth like a windshield wiper. Très cool. Also, these guys, unlike the FBI, almost always used their full names. There was no Ed in Edward Harris. Ted Nash seemed to be an exception to this rule. I suddenly had this bright idea to call him Teddy next time I saw him.
I should point out that normally I would not be at a meeting at this level, and neither would Kate. But having been witnesses to, and participants in, the events that had brought us all together, Kate and I were included. How good is
that?
that?
Jack Koenig announced, “As some of you may know, a decision was made in Washington yesterday afternoon to put out a brief statement to the news media, along with photographs of Asad Khalil. The statement says only that he is a suspect in a case involving international terrorism, and is wanted by Federal authorities. No mention was made of Flight One-Seven-Five. The statement and his photographs appeared on most eleven o’clock TV news broadcasts. Some of you may have seen it last night. Today’s newspapers will carry the photos and the statement.”
No one commented aloud, but the expressions on everyone’s face said, “It’s about fucking time.”
Captain David Stein asserted his co-commandership and stood unbidden by King Jack. Captain Stein announced, “We will set up an Incident Command Center on the twenty-sixth floor. Everyone who is assigned to this case will move themselves and their pertinent files there. Everything associated with this case will be in, or come through, the ICC—files, photos, maps, charts, leads, evidence, interview transcripts—the whole nine yards. Until further notice, there are only three places that the ATTF people will be—in the ICC, in bed, or out in the field. Don’t spend too long in bed.” He looked around the room and added, “Anybody who needs to go to the funerals can go. Questions?”
No one seemed to have any questions, so he continued, “The Mideast section will have fifty ATTF agents directly assigned to this case, from all law enforcement agencies who make up our task force. Another hundred or so men and women will be attached to the case in the New York metropolitan area, plus there are hundreds of other agents working this case in the U.S. and abroad.”
And so on.
Next up to bat was Lieutenant Mike O’Leary of the NYPD Intelligence Unit. He spoke a few words about Nick Monti, who was an Intell guy, and in true Irish tradition, told a funny Nick Monti anecdote, which he probably made up.
There aren’t that many municipal police forces with their own intelligence organizations, but New York City, home to every weirdo political movement on the planet, needs such an outfit.
The NYPD Intelligence Unit was founded during the Red Scare, and they used to hound and harass the local commies, who actually liked being persecuted by the cops. No one else paid any attention to them except the FBI.
The old Red Squad morphed into what it is today, and they’re not bad at what they do, but they have limitations. Also, they don’t really like the ATTF, which they consider competition, but Mike O’Leary assured everyone that his organization was on the case and would cooperate fully. I knew in my guts that if his people got a lead, we’d never hear about it. But to be fair, if the FBI got a lead, O’Leary would never hear about it either.
Lieutenant O’Leary blessed us all and sat down. The Irish are beautiful bullshitters. I mean, you know they’re lying, they know you know they’re lying, but they do it with so much charm, conviction, and energy that everyone feels kind of good about it.
Next up was Robert Moody, NYPD Chief of Detectives. He was saying, “My detectives will keep their eyes and ears open on this case while working other cases, and I assure you that the four thousand men and women in my command will carry with them at all times a photo of the alleged perpetrator, and will forward all leads to the ATTF Incident Command Center.”
Bullshit.
Chief Moody concluded with, “If he’s anywhere in the five boroughs, we have a good chance of knowing about it, and we’ll pick him up.”
The subtext here was that Moody would love to collar Khalil before the Feds even got a lead, and let them find out about it in the morning papers.
Captain Stein thanked Inspector Moody and added, “I also have assurances from the Police Commissioner that all uniformed officers will be briefed before their duty tours. Also, today, the Commissioner is meeting with all the Police Commissioners from the surrounding suburban counties and municipalities, seeking their full cooperation and support. This means that over seventy thousand law enforcement officers in the metropolitan area are looking for the same man. This is, in effect, the single biggest manhunt in the history of the New York metropolitan area.”
I noticed that Alan Parker was making copious notes, maybe to use in a news release, or maybe he was writing a TV mini-series. I don’t particularly trust writers.
Stein said, “Meanwhile, our first focus is the Mideastern community,” and turned it over to Gabriel Haytham.
Haytham stood and looked around the room. As the only Arab and Muslim person present, he could have been a little paranoid, but after years of working with the NYPD Intelligence Unit, and now with the ATTF, Sergeant Gabriel Haytham was cool. He once confided to me, “My real name is Jibril—means Gabriel in Arabic. But don’t let that get around—I’m trying to pass as a WASP.”
I like a guy with a sense of humor, and Gabe needed a very good sense of humor and sense of self to do what he was doing. I mean, it’s not too difficult being an Arab-American in New York, but being an Arab-American Muslim assigned to the Mideast section of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force took big balloons. I wonder what Gabriel tells his buddies down at the mosque? Like, “Hey, Abdul, I busted two Salami-Salamis last night.” Not likely.
Sergeant Haytham was the commander of the stakeout units, the NYPD detectives assigned to the ATTF who did the actual legwork, keeping track of people who were suspected of having ties to extremist organizations. These guys sat for hours outside of apartments and houses, took photos, used long-range audio detection equipment and tape recorders, and followed people in cars, subways, taxis, trains, buses, and on foot—stuff that the FBI guys couldn’t or wouldn’t do. The job sucked, but it was the meat and potatoes of the ATTF. A lot of time and money went into this, and the Mideast community wasn’t too happy about being under the eye all the time, but, as the saying goes, “If you haven’t done anything wrong, you have nothing to worry about.”
Anyway, Gabriel was informing us, “Between about five P.M. Saturday and now, the stakeout people dropped their cover, and they turned the city inside out and upside down. We managed to get consent searches and blanket search warrants that covered everything except the Mayor’s bedroom. We questioned about eight hundred people in their homes, in station houses, on the street, in their places of business, and here—civic leaders, suspects, regular Yusefs, and even Muslim religious leaders.”
I couldn’t resist saying to Gabe, “If we don’t hear from at least twenty Arab League civil rights lawyers by noon, you’re not doing your job.”
Everyone got a good chuckle out of that one. Even Kate laughed.
Gabe said to me, “Hey, we sweated the Arab League lawyers, too. They’re hiring Jewish lawyers to file suit.”
Again, everyone laughed, but the laughter was a little strained. This was, after all, a bit awkward. But a little humor goes a long way toward dealing with touchy subjects. I mean, there was a lot of cultural diversity in the room, and we hadn’t even heard from the Polish guy, Captain Wydrzynski, yet. I had a great Polish joke, but maybe I’d hold it for another time.
Gabriel went on without blowing his horn too much and had to admit, “I’ve got to tell you, we have not one single lead. Not a glimmer. Not even the regular crap of somebody trying to pin a bum rap on their father-in-law. No one wants to touch this one. But we’ve got another thousand or so people to question, and we’ve got a hundred more places to search. Also, we’re doubling back on some people and places. We’re putting maximum heat on the Mideast community, and, yeah, we may be stepping on some civil rights, but we’ll worry about that later.” He added, “We’re not torturing anybody.”
Koenig remarked dryly, “Washington will appreciate your restraint.”
Gabriel said to Jack, “Most of these people come from countries where police beatings are used before the first question is asked. The people we’re talking to get confused if you don’t at least get a little physical with them.”
Koenig cleared his throat and said, “I don’t think we need to hear that. In any case, Sergeant, we don’t—”
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