The Lion's Game (47 page)

Paul Grey shelved the book and said, “Let’s sit a minute before we start.” He motioned Khalil to an upholstered chair beside the coffee table. Khalil sat and Paul Grey sat opposite him.

Paul Grey sipped on his orange juice. Khalil drank from his bottle of water. Grey said, “Please understand, Colonel, that the software demonstration I’m going to show you could be considered classified material. But as I understand it, I can show it to a representative of a friendly government. But when it comes to the question of purchasing it, then we have to get clearance.”

“I understand that. My people are already working on that.” He added, “I appreciate the security. We would not want this software to fall into the hands of ... let’s say, our mutual enemies.” He smiled.

Paul Grey returned the smile and said, “If you mean certain Mideastern nations, I doubt they’d be able to put this to any practical use. To be honest with you, Colonel, those people don’t have the brains they were born with.”

Khalil smiled again and said, “Never underestimate an enemy.”

“I try not to, but if you’d been in my cockpit in the Gulf, you’d think you were flying against a bunch of crop dusters.” He added, “That doesn’t bring much credit on me, but I’m talking to a pro, so I’ll be honest.”

Khalil replied, “As my colleagues told you, though I am the embassy air attaché officer, I’m afraid I have no combat experience in attack aircraft. My area of expertise is training and operations, so I cannot regale you with any heroic war stories.”

Grey nodded.

Khalil regarded his host for a moment. He could have killed him the minute he opened the kitchen door, or any time since then, but the killing would be almost meaningless without some pleasant trifling. Malik had said to him, “All members of the cat family toy with their captured prey before killing them. Take your time. Savor the moment. It will not come again.”

Khalil nodded toward the newspaper on the coffee table and said, “You’ve read what has been revealed about Flight One-Seven-Five?”

Grey glanced down at the newspaper. “Yes ... some heads are going to roll over that. I mean, how the hell did those Libyan clowns pull that off? A bomb on board is one thing—but gas? And then the guy escapes and kills a bunch of Federal agents. I see the hand of Moammar Gadhafi in this.”

“Yes? Perhaps. It’s unfortunate that the bomb you dropped on his residence at Al Azziziyah didn’t kill him.”

Paul Grey did not reply for a few seconds, then said, “I had no part in that mission, Colonel, and if your intelligence service thinks I did, they’re wrong.”

Asad Khalil waved his hand in a placating gesture. “No, no, Captain—I did not mean you, personally. I meant the American Air Force.”

“Oh ... sorry ...”

“However,” Khalil continued, “if you
were
on that mission, then I congratulate you, and thank you on behalf of the Israeli people.”

Paul Grey remained expressionless, then stood and said, “Why don’t we move over here and have a look?”

Khalil stood, took his bag, and followed Paul Grey to the far side of the room where two leather swivel chairs sat facing two screens.

Paul Grey said, “First, I’ll show you a demonstration of the software, just using this joystick and the keyboard. Next, we’ll move to those other two chairs where we’ll enter the world of virtual reality.” He moved to the two more elaborate chairs with no TV screens in front of them. He said, “Here we use computer modeling and simulation to enable a person to interact with an artificial three-dimensional visual and other sensory environments. Are you familiar with this?”

Khalil did not reply.

Paul Grey hesitated a moment, then continued, “Virtual reality applications immerse the user in a computer-generated environment that simulates reality through the use of interactive devices which send and receive information. These devices are typically goggles, helmets, gloves, or even body suits. Here I have two helmets with a stereoscopic screen for each eye where you can view animated images of a simulated environment. The illusion of being there—telepresence—is effected by motion sensors that pick up the user’s movements and adjust the view on the screens accordingly, usually in real time.” Paul Grey looked at his potential customer, but could see no sign of comprehension or non-comprehension behind the sunglasses.

Paul Grey continued, “Here you see I’ve set up a generic fighter-bomber cockpit, complete with rudder pedals, throttles, control stick, bomb release triggers, and so forth. Since you have no experience with fighter craft, you won’t be able to fly this thing, but you can experience a bomb run just by putting on the stereoscopic helmet while I fly.”

Asad Khalil looked at the elaborate paraphernalia around him, then said, “Yes, we have similar capabilities in our Air Force.”

“I know you do. But the software that has recently been developed is years ahead of existing software. Let’s sit in front of the monitors, and I’ll give you a quick look before we move on to virtual reality.”

They moved back to the other side of the room, and Paul Grey indicated one of the two leather swivel chairs with a console between them, and a keyboard in front of each chair. Khalil sat.

Paul Grey, still standing, said, “These are seats from an old F-111 that I put swivel legs on. Just to get us in the spirit.”

“Not very comfortable.”

“No, they’re not. I once flew—I’ve flown long distances in those seats. Can I hang your jacket?”

“No, thank you. I am not accustomed to the air conditioning.”

“You may want to take your sunglasses off when I dim the room.”

“Yes.”

Paul Grey sat in the aircraft seat beside Khalil and picked up a remote control from the console, hit two buttons, and the lights dimmed as heavy blackout curtains drew closed over the large windows. Khalil removed his sunglasses. They sat silently in the darkness for a second, watching the lights of the electronics around them.

The image screen brightened and showed the cockpit and windshield of an advanced jet attack fighter. Paul Grey said, “This is the cockpit of the F-16, but several other aircraft can be used in this simulation. You have some of these aircraft in your armory. The first simulation that I’ll show you is of an aerial toss-bombing mission. Fighter pilots who spend ten or fifteen hours with this relatively inexpensive software are that many hours ahead of a pilot who goes cold into a flight training program. This can save millions of dollars per pilot.”

The view through the windshield of the simulated cockpit suddenly changed from blue sky to a green horizon. Paul Grey said, “Now, I’m just using this joystick with a few additional controls and the keyboard, but the software can be interfaced with the actual controls of most modern American attack aircraft which are placed in a virtual reality ground simulator, which we’ll see later.”

“This is very interesting.”

Paul Grey said, “Now, the targets programmed into the software are mostly imaginary targets—generic stuff—bridges, airfields, anti-aircraft emplacements, and missile sites—they shoot back at you—” He laughed, and continued, “But I have some real targets pre-programmed in, plus other real targets can be programmed if there’s some aerial recon, or satellite shots of it.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Let’s take out a bridge.”

The view through the computer-generated windshield changed from a featureless horizon to computer-generated hills and valleys, through which a river flowed. In the distance, coming up fast, was a bridge on which was a simulated column of moving tanks and trucks.

Paul Grey said, “Hold on.” The horizon disappeared and turned to blue sky as the simulated jet climbed into the air. A radar screen in the cockpit now filled the right-hand viewing screen, and Grey said in a rapid tone of voice, “This is what the pilot would be paying close attention to at this point. See the radar image of the bridge? The computer has completely isolated it from the background clutter. See the crosshairs? Right on. Release—one, two, three, four—”

Now the screen in front of Khalil showed a close-up overhead view of the simulated bridge with the simulated armored column crossing it. Four huge explosions, complete with deafening sound, erupted from the speakers as the bridge and the vehicles disintegrated into a fiery ball. The bridge began to collapse, and a few vehicles fell off the structure, then the simulation froze. Paul Grey said, “That’s as much blood and guts as I wanted to program into the show. I don’t want to be accused of loving this stuff.”

“But it must give you some enjoyment.”

Paul Grey did not reply.

The screen went blank and the room was dark.

Both men sat in the darkness awhile, then Grey said, “Most of the programs don’t show such graphic detail. Most just give the pilot his bomb score and the results of the damage. In fact, Colonel, I don’t enjoy war.”

“I didn’t mean to be offensive.”

The lights brightened slightly, and Paul Grey turned his head toward his guest. He said, “May I see some sort of credentials?”

“Of course. But let’s first move to the virtual reality seats, and destroy a real target with women and children. Perhaps ... well, do you have, for instance, a Libyan target? Specifically, Al Azziziyah?”

Paul Grey stood and took a deep breath. “Who the hell are you?”

Asad Khalil stood also, his plastic water bottle in one hand, his other hand in the pocket of his suit jacket. “I am—as God said to Moses—who I am. I am who I am. What a remarkable response to a stupid question. Who else could it have been, but God? But I suppose Moses was nervous, not stupid. A nervous man says, ‘Who are you?’ when what he really means is one of two things—I hope you
are
who I think you are, or I hope you are
not
who I think you are. So, who do you think I am, if not Colonel Itzak Hurok of the Israeli Embassy?”

Paul Grey did not reply.

“I’ll give you a hint. Look at me without my sunglasses. Picture me without the mustache. Who am I?”

Paul Grey shook his head.

“Don’t pretend to be stupid, Captain. You know who I am.”

Again, Paul Grey shook his head, but this time took a step back from his visitor, focusing on Khalil’s hand in his pocket. Asad Khalil said, “Our lives crossed once, on the fifteenth of April, in nineteen eighty-six. You were a lieutenant piloting an F-111 attack aircraft out of Lakenheath Airbase, call sign Elton thirty-eight. I was a boy of sixteen, who lived a pleasant life with my mother, two brothers, and two sisters in the place called Al Azziziyah. They all died that night. So, that’s who I am. Now, why do you think I am here?”

Paul Grey cleared his throat and said, “If you are a military man, you understand war, and you understand that orders must be obeyed—”

“Shut up. I am not a military man, but I am an Islamic freedom fighter. In fact, it was you and your fellow murderers who made me what I am. And now, I have arrived at your beautiful home to avenge the poor martyrs of Al Azziziyah, and all of Libya.” Khalil pulled the pistol out of his pocket and pointed it at Paul Grey.

Paul Grey’s eyes darted around the room, as though he were looking for an escape.

Khalil said to him, “Look at
me
, Captain Paul Grey. Look at
me
. I am reality. Not your stupid, bloodless virtual reality. I am flesh-and-blood reality. I shoot back.”

Paul Grey’s eyes went back to Asad Khalil.

Khalil said, “My name is Asad Khalil, and you can take that to hell with you.”

“Look ... Mr. Khalil—” He stared at Khalil and recognition dawned in his eyes.

Khalil said, “Yes, I am
that
Asad Khalil, who arrived on Flight One-Seven-Five. The man who your government is looking for. They should have looked here, or at the home of the late General Waycliff and his late wife.”

“Oh, my God ...”

“Or the home of Mr. Satherwaite, who I will visit next, or Mr. Wiggins, or Mr. McCoy, or Colonel Callum. But I’m happy to see that neither you nor they have reached any such conclusions.”

“How did you know ... ?”

“All secrets are for sale. Your compatriots in Washington betrayed you all for money.”

“No.”

“No? Then perhaps it was the late Colonel Hambrecht, your squadron mate, who sold you to me.”

“No ... did you ... did you ...”

“Yes, I killed him. With an ax. You will not suffer such physical pain as he did—just mental pain, as you stand there and contemplate your sins and your punishment.”

Paul Grey did not reply.

Asad Khalil said, “Your knees are shaking, Captain. You can release your bladder if you wish. I won’t be offended.”

Paul Grey drew a deep breath and said, “Look, your information was wrong. I wasn’t on that mission. I—”

“Oh. Then forgive me. I’ll be leaving.” He smiled, then tipped his bottle of water, and let it pour on the carpet.

Paul Grey focused on the water splashing on the floor, then looked back at Asad Khalil, and an expression of puzzlement crossed his face.

Khalil had the Glock close to his body, the muzzle pushed into the neck of the plastic bottle.

Paul Grey saw the bottom of the bottle pointing toward him, then saw that Khalil held the gun behind it, and he understood what that meant. He threw out his hands in a protective gesture. “No!”

Khalil fired a single shot through the bottle, hitting Paul Grey in the abdomen.

Grey doubled over and stumbled backwards until he sank to his knees. He grabbed his abdomen with both hands, trying to stem the flow of blood, then looked down and saw the blood seeping between his fingers. He looked up at Khalil, who was walking toward him. “Stop ... no ...”

Khalil aimed the Glock with the contrived silencer and said, “I have no more time for you. You don’t have the brains you were born with.” He fired a single shot into Paul Grey’s forehead, blowing his brains out the back of his skull. Khalil turned before Paul Grey hit the floor and retrieved the two shell casings as he heard the body fall on the carpet.