The Lion's Game (44 page)

And finally, just as Yusef Haddad went into the lavatory, which was the signal for Khalil to ask permission to use the facility, Asad Khalil said to Gorman, “I killed Colonel Hambrecht in England as the first part of my mission.”

“What mission?” Gorman asked.

“My mission to kill all seven surviving American pilots who participated in the air raid on Al Azziziyah on April fifteen, nineteen eighty-six.” He added, “My family all died in that attack.”

Gorman had remained silent for a long moment, then said, “I’m sorry about your family.” He added, “I thought those pilots’ names were classified as top secret.”

“Of course they are,” Khalil had replied. “But top secrets can be revealed—they just cost more money.”

Then, Gorman had said something that even now bothered Khalil. Gorman said, “I have a secret for you, too, Mr. Khalil. It concerns your mother and father. And other personal matters.”

Khalil, against his better judgment, was baited into asking, “What is it?”

“You will know in New York. After you tell us what
we
want to know.”

Yusef Haddad had exited the lavatory, and there was not a minute to spare to pursue this. Khalil requested permission to use the lavatory. A few minutes later, Peter Gorman took his secret and Khalil’s secret to the grave with him.

Asad Khalil scanned the newspaper again, but there was little of interest beyond the one-million-dollar reward, which he thought was not much money, considering all the people he had killed. In fact, it was almost an insult to the families of the dead, and certainly a personal insult to himself.

He threw the newspaper in the trash can, gathered his overnight bag, looked out the peephole again, then opened the door and went directly to his car.

He got in, started the engine, and drove out of the parking lot of the Sheraton Motor Inn, back on to the highway.

It was 7:30 A.M., the sky was clear, and the traffic was light.

He drove to a shopping strip that was dominated by a huge supermarket called Winn-Dixie. They had told him in Tripoli that coin telephones could usually be found at gasoline stations or near supermarkets, and sometimes in post offices, as was the case in Libya and Europe. But the post office was a place he needed to avoid. He saw a row of telephones against the wall of the supermarket near the doorways, and parked his car in the nearly empty lot. He found coins in the overnight bag, put one of the pistols in his pocket, got out of the car, and went to one of the telephones.

He looked at the numbers he had written down and dialed the first one.

A woman answered, “Alpha Aviation Services.”

He said, “I would like to hire an aircraft and pilot to take me to Daytona Beach.”

“Yes, sir. When would you like to go?”

“I have a nine-thirty A.M. appointment in Daytona Beach.”

“Where are you now?”

“I am calling from Jacksonville Airport.”

“Okay, then you should get here as soon as possible. We’re located at Craig Municipal Airport. Do you know where that is?”

“No, but I’m coming by taxi.”

“Okay. How many passengers, sir?”

“Just myself.”

“Okay ... and will this be round-trip?”

“Yes, but the wait will be short.”

“Okay ... I can’t give you an exact price, but it’s about three hundred dollars round-trip, plus waiting time. Any landing or parking fees are additional.”

“Yes, all right.”

“Your name, sir?”

“Demitrious Poulos.” He spelled it for her.

“Okay, Mr. Poulos, when you get to Craig Municipal, tell the driver we’re, like, at the end of the row of hangars on the north side of the field. Okay? Big sign. Alpha Aviation Services. Ask anyone.”

“Thank you. Have a nice day.”

“You, too.”

He hung up.

They had assured him in Tripoli that renting an aircraft and pilot in America was easier than renting an automobile. With an automobile, you needed a credit card, a driver’s license, and you had to be a certain age. But with a piloted aircraft, you were asked no more questions than if you were taking a taxi. Boris had told him, “What the Americans call General Aviation—private flying—is not subject to close government scrutiny as it is in Libya or my country. You need no identification. I have done this many times myself. This is an occasion when cash is better than a credit card. They can avoid taxes if you pay cash, and their record keeping of cash is not so meticulous.”

Khalil nodded to himself. His journey was becoming less difficult. He put a coin in the telephone and dialed a number that he’d memorized.

A voice answered, “Grey Simulation Software. This is Paul Grey.”

Khalil took a long breath and replied, “Mr. Grey, this is Colonel Itzak Hurok of the Israeli Embassy.”

“Oh, yes, been waiting for your call.”

“Someone from Washington has spoken to you?”

“Yes, of course. They said nine-thirty. Where are you now?”

“Jacksonville. I have just landed.”

“Oh, well, it’s going to take you about two and a half hours to get here.”

“I have a private aircraft waiting for me at the Municipal Airport, and I understand that you live at an airport.”

Paul Grey laughed and said, “Well, you could say that. It’s called a fly-in community. Spruce Creek, outside of Daytona Beach. Listen, Colonel, I have an idea. Why don’t I fly to Craig and pick you up in my plane? Meet me in the lounge. It’s less than an hour flight. I can be airborne in ten minutes. Then I can fly you right back to Jacksonville International in time for your flight back to Washington. How’s that?”

Khalil had not anticipated this and had to think quickly. He said, “I have already engaged a car to drive me to the Municipal Airport, and my embassy has prepaid for the aircraft. In any case, I am instructed to accept no favors. You understand.”

“Sure. I understand that. But you have to have a cold beer when you get here.”

“I am looking forward to it.”

“Okay. Make sure the pilot has the info he needs to land at Spruce Creek. Any problem, just call me here before take-off.”

“I will do that.”

“And when you land, give me a call from the fuel and maintenance facility at the center of the airport, and I’ll come over and pick you up with my golf cart. Okay?”

“Thank you.” He said, “As my colleague told you, there is a degree of discretion in my visit.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Right. I’m alone.”

“Good.”

Paul Grey said, “I have a hell of a show set up for you.”

And I for you, Captain Grey
. “I look forward to it.”

Khalil hung up and got into the Mercury. He programmed the Satellite Navigator for Craig Municipal Airport, and got onto the highway.

He headed east from the north side of Jacksonville, followed the instructions of the Satellite Navigator, and within twenty minutes approached the entrance to the airport.

As they said in Tripoli, there were no guards at the gate, and he drove straight through, following the road that led to the buildings around the Control Tower.

The sun glared here, as it did in Libya, he thought, and the land was flat and featureless, except for clusters of pine trees.

The buildings were mostly hangars, but there was a small terminal building and a car rental agency. He saw a sign that said FLORIDA AIR NATIONAL GUARD, which sounded military and which caused him some anxiety. Also, he hadn’t realized that individual states had their own military. But he thought perhaps he was misinterpreting the sign. Boris had told him, “In America, the meaning of many signs is not clearly understood, even by the Americans. If you misinterpret a sign and make a transgression, do not panic, do not attempt to flee, and do not kill anyone. Simply apologize and explain that the sign was not clear, or you did not see it. Even the police will accept that explanation. The only signs Americans see and understand are signs that say Sale, Free, or Sex. I once saw a road sign in Arizona that said, ‘Free Sex—Speed Limit Forty Miles an Hour.’ You understand?”

Khalil did not, and Boris had to explain it to him.

In any case, Khalil avoided the area that said AIR NATIONAL GUARD, and soon saw the large sign that said ALPHA AVIATION SERVICES.

He also noticed that there were many license plates of different colors in the parking lot near the car rental agency, so that his New York plates did not stand out.

He pulled the Mercury into an empty space some distance from where he needed to be, took his overnight bag that contained the second Glock and the spare magazines, exited the car, locked it, and began his walk to Alpha Aviation.

It was very humid here, very glaring, and he realized he could wear sunglasses as many people did. But they had told him in Tripoli that many Americans considered it rude to wear sunglasses when speaking to another person. The Southern police, however, often wore sunglasses while speaking to you, according to Boris, and they meant it, not as rudeness, but as a demonstration of their power and masculinity. Khalil had questioned Boris about this, but even Boris had to admit he didn’t understand the nuances.

Khalil looked around the airport, shielding his eyes with his hand. Most of the aircraft he saw were small, single- or two-engine propeller planes, and a good number of medium-sized jet aircraft, many of which had the names of what seemed to be corporations on them.

A small aircraft was taking off from a distant runway, and a few aircraft were taxiing slowly out to the runways. There were a lot of engine noises around him, and the smell of petroleum hung in the still air.

Asad Khalil walked to the glass door of the Alpha Aviation Services office, opened it, and strode inside. A blast of frigid air hit him, causing him to catch his breath.

A heavy, middle-aged woman behind a long counter stood at her desk and said, “Good morning. Can I help you?”

“Yes. My name is Demitrious Poulos, and I called—”

“Yes, sir. You spoke to me. How would you like to pay for this flight, sir?”

“Cash.”

“Okay, why don’t you give me five hundred now, and we’ll adjust it when you return.”

“Yes.” Khalil counted out five hundred dollars, and the woman gave him a receipt.

She said, “Have a seat, sir, and I’ll call the pilot.”

Khalil sat in the reception area of the small office. It was quieter in here, but the air was too cold.

The woman was on the telephone. Khalil noticed two newspapers on the low coffee table in front of him. One paper was the
Florida Times-Union
that he had seen in the hotel. The other was called
USA Today
. Both front pages had his photographs displayed in color. He picked up the
USA Today
and read the article, glancing over the paper at the woman, whose head he could see beyond the counter.

He was fully prepared to kill her or the pilot, or anyone whose eyes and face betrayed the slightest hint of recognition.

The article in
USA Today
was, if anything, less clear than the other newspaper, though the words were more simple. There was a small color map that showed the route of Trans-Continental Flight 175 from Paris to New York. Khalil wondered why this was important or necessary.

A few minutes later, a side door opened, and a slim woman in her middle twenties entered the office. She was dressed in khaki slacks, a pullover shirt, and wore sunglasses. Her blond hair was short, and at first Khalil thought it was a boy, then realized his mistake. In fact, Khalil noticed, she was not unattractive.

The woman walked toward him and inquired, “Mr. Poulos?”

“Yes.” Khalil stood, folded his paper so that his photo wasn’t showing, and put it down over the other newspaper.

The woman removed her sunglasses, and they made eye contact.

The woman smiled, thereby saving her own life and the life of the woman behind the counter. The woman standing before him said, “Hi, I’m Stacy Moll. I’ll be your pilot today.”

Khalil was speechless for a moment, then nodded and noticed the woman had her hand stretched toward him. He reached out and took her hand, hoping that she couldn’t see the flush he felt in his face.

She released his hand and asked, “You got any luggage besides that bag?”

“No. That is all.”

“Okay. You got to use the plumbing or anything?”

“Oh ... no ...”

“Good. Hey, you smoke?”

“No.”

“Then I need a fix here.” She took a pack of cigarettes out of her breast pocket and lit one with a book of matches. She said, “Just be a minute. You want a candy bar or something?” She puffed on the cigarette as she spoke. “Sunglasses? Got some over there. They come in handy when you’re flying.”

Khalil looked toward the counter and noticed a display of sunglasses. He examined them and took a pair, on which was a tag that said $24.95. Khalil couldn’t understand this American pricing, where everything was a few pennies short of a full dollar. He removed his bifocals, put on the sunglasses, and looked at himself in the small mirror attached to the display. He smiled. “Yes, I will take these.”

The woman behind the counter said, “Just give me twenty-five, and I’ll take care of Florida for you.”

Khalil had no idea what she was talking about, but took two twenty-dollar bills from his wallet and gave them to her.

She gave him his change and said, “Give me the glasses, and I’ll cut off the tag.”

He hesitated, but could see no way to refuse this request. He took off the glasses, but she didn’t look at him as she snipped the plastic thread that held the price tag. She handed the glasses back to him, and he put them on quickly, watching her face the whole time.

The female pilot said to him, “Okay, got my fix.”

He turned toward her and saw she was carrying his overnight bag. He said, “I will carry that.”