The Lion's Game (56 page)

Asad Khalil watched the countryside slip by beneath the aircraft as the old Piper Apache cruised at seventy-five hundred feet through clear skies, heading northeast, toward Long Island.

Bill Satherwaite informed his passenger, “We have a nice tailwind, so we’re making good time.”

“Excellent.”
The tailwind has stolen some time from your life
.

Bill Satherwaite said, “So, as I was saying, this was the longest jet fighter attack mission ever attempted. And the F-111 isn’t exactly comfortable.”

Khalil sat quietly and listened.

Satherwaite continued, “The fucking French wouldn’t let us fly over their country. But the Italians were okay—said we could abort in Sicily if we had to. So, in my book, you guys are okay.”

“Thank you.”

Norfolk, Virginia, was passing beneath them, and Satherwaite took the opportunity to point out the United States naval facility off the right wing. “Look—there’s the fleet—you see those two aircraft carriers in their berths? See them?”

“Yes.”

“Navy did a good job for us that night. They didn’t see any action, but just knowing they were out there to cover us on our way back from the attack was a big confidence booster.”

“Yes, I can understand that.”

“But as it turned out, the chickenshit Libyan Air Force didn’t follow us out after we’d completed our attack.” He added, “Their pilots were probably hiding under their beds, pissing in their drawers.” He laughed.

Khalil recalled his own episode of incontinence with shame and anger. He cleared his throat and said, “I seem to remember that one of the American aircraft was shot down by the Libyan Air Force.”

“No way. They never got off the ground.”

“But you lost an aircraft—correct?”

Satherwaite glanced at his passenger and said, “Yeah, we lost one aircraft, but a lot of us are pretty sure that the guy just screwed up his attack—he got too low and hit the water on his run-in to the beach.”

“Perhaps he was shot down by a missile, or by anti-aircraft fire.”

Again, Satherwaite glanced at his passenger. He said, “Their air defenses sucked. I mean, they had all this high-tech stuff from the Russkies, but they didn’t have the brains or the balls to use it.” Satherwaite reconsidered this remark, then added, “But there really
was
a lot of Triple-A and SAMs coming up at us. I had to take evasive action from the SAMs, you know, but with the Triple-A, all you can do is charge on, right through it.”

“You were very brave.”

“Hey, just doing my job.”

“And you were the first aircraft to fly into Al Azziziyah?”

“Yeah. Lead aircraft ... hey, did I say Al Azziziyah?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Yeah?” Satherwaite didn’t recall using that word, which he could hardly pronounce. “Anyway, my wizo—weapons officer—Chip ... can’t use last names—but he tosses four, scores three directs, and fucks up the last one, but he hit something.”

“What did he hit?”

“I don’t know. After-action satellite photos showed ... maybe some barracks or houses—no secondary explosions, so it wasn’t what he was supposed to hit, which was an old Italian munitions storage building. Who cares? He hit something. Hey, do you know how we get a body count? Satellite recon counts arms and legs and divides by four.” He laughed.

Asad Khalil felt his heart beating rapidly, and he prayed to God for self-control. He took several deep breaths and closed his eyes. This man, he realized, had killed his family. He saw images of his brothers, Esam and Qadir, his sisters, Adara and Lina, and his mother, smiling at him from Paradise, enfolding her four children in her arms. She was nodding, and her lips were moving—but he couldn’t hear what she was saying, though he knew she was proud of him and was encouraging him to finish the task of avenging their deaths.

He opened his eyes and looked at the blue sky ahead of him. A single brilliant white cloud hung outside at eye level, and somehow he knew this cloud held his family.

He thought, too, of his father, whom he barely remembered, and said silently to him, “Father, I will make you proud.”

Then, he thought of Bahira, and it suddenly struck him that this monster sitting next to him had actually been responsible for her death.

Bill Satherwaite said, “I wish I’d had the Gadhafi run. That was Paul’s target, the lucky bastard. I mean, we weren’t sure that Arab asshole would be in that military compound that night, but our G-2 guys thought he was. You’re not supposed to assassinate heads of state. Some kind of stupid law—I think that pussy Carter signed the law. Can’t try to kill heads of state. Bullshit. You can bomb the shit out of civilians, but you can’t kill the boss. But Reagan had a ton more balls than pussy Carter, so Ronnie says, ‘Go for it,’ and Paul draws the hot ticket. You understand? His wizo was this guy Jim, who lives on Long Island. Paul finds Gadhafi’s house, no problem, and Jim puts a big one right on target. Bye, bye house. But fucking Gadhafi is sleeping in a fucking tent out back or someplace—Did I tell you this? Anyway, he escapes with nothing more than shit and piss on himself.”

Asad Khalil drew another deep breath and said, “But his daughter was killed, you said.”

“Yeah ... tough break. But typical of how this fucking world works. Right? I mean, they tried to kill Hitler with a bomb, a bunch of people around him get pureed, and fucking Hitler walks away with a singed mustache. So, what’s God thinking? You know? This little girl gets killed, we look bad, and the head scumbag walks away.”

Khalil did not reply.

“Hey, the other hot ticket was drawn by another squadron. Did I tell you about that? This other squadron has some targets right in Tripoli, and one of the targets is the French Embassy. Now, nobody ever admitted to that, and it was supposed to be a mistake, but one of our guys plants one right in the backyard of the French Embassy. Didn’t want to kill anybody, and it was early A.M., so nobody should be around there, and nobody was. But think about that—we hit Gadhafi’s house, and he’s in the backyard. Then we hit the backyard of the French Embassy on purpose, but nobody’s in the embassy anyway. See my point? What if it had been reversed? Allah was watching over that asshole that night. Makes you wonder.”

Khalil felt his hands trembling, and his body began to shake. If they had been on the ground, he would have killed this blasphemous dog with his bare hands. He closed his eyes and prayed.

Satherwaite went on, “I mean, the French are our good buddies, our allies, but they went pussy on us and wouldn’t let us fly over their territory, so we showed them that accidents can happen when flight crews have to fly extra hours and get a little tired.” Satherwaite laughed hard. “Just an accident.
Excusez moi!”

He laughed again and added, “Did Ronnie have balls or what? We need another guy like that in the White House. Bush was a fighter pilot. You know that? Got shot down by the Japs in the Pacific. He was an okay guy. Then we get that ball-less wonder from East Chicken Shit, Arkansas—you follow politics?”

Khalil opened his eyes and replied, “As a guest in your country, I do not make comments on American politics.”

“Yeah? I guess not. Anyway, the fucking Libyans got what they deserved for bombing that disco.”

Khalil stayed silent a moment, then commented, “This was all so long ago, yet you seem to remember it all quite well.”

“Yeah ... well, it’s hard to forget a combat experience.”

“I’m certain the people in Libya have not forgotten it either.”

Satherwaite laughed. “I’m sure not. You know, the Arabs have long fucking memories. I mean, two years after we unloaded in Libya, they blow Pan Am One-Zero-Three out of the sky.”

“As it says in the Hebrew scriptures, ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ ”

“Yeah. I’m surprised we didn’t get them back for that. Anyway, that wimp Gadhafi finally turned over the guys who planted the bomb. That kind of surprised me. I mean, what’s his game?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, this scumbag must have a trick up his sleeve. You know? What’s in it for him to turn over two of his own people, who he ordered to plant the bomb?”

Khalil replied, “Perhaps he felt great pressure to cooperate with the World Court.”

“Yeah? But then what? Then he has to save face with his terrorist Arab buddies, so he goes and pulls another stunt. You know? Like maybe what happened with that Trans-Continental flight was another Gadhafi stunt. The guy that they suspect is a Libyan. Right?”

“I am not very familiar with this incident.”

“Me neither, to tell you the truth. The news sucks.”

Khalil added, “But you may be right about this latest act of terrorism being revenge for the Libyans being compelled to surrender these individuals. Or perhaps, the air raid on Libya has not been fully avenged.”

“Who knows? Who gives a shit? You try to figure out those ragheads, you’ll go as crazy as them.”

Khalil did not reply.

They flew on. Satherwaite seemed to lose interest in conversation and yawned a few times. They followed the coast of New Jersey as the sun sank lower. Khalil could see scattered lights below, and to his front he saw a bright glow on the ocean. He asked, “What is that?”

“Where? Oh ... that’s Atlantic City coming up. I’ve been there once. Great place if you like wine, women, and song.”

Khali recognized this as a reference to a verse by the great Persian poet Omar Khayyafiaam.
A jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou beside me singing in the wilderness—Oh, wilderness is Paradise enough!
He said, “So, that is Paradise?”

Satherwaite laughed. “Yeah. Or hell. Depends on how the cards are running. You gamble?”

“No, I do not gamble.”

“I thought the ... the Sicilians were into gambling.”

“We encourage others to gamble. The winners of the game are those who do not gamble themselves.”

“You got a point there.”

Satherwaite banked the aircraft to the right and set a new heading. He said, “We’ll go out over the Atlantic and head in straight for Long Island. I’m beginning my descent now, so your ears may pop a little.”

Khalil glanced at his watch. It was seven-fifteen, and the sun was barely visible on the western horizon. On the ground below, it was dark. He removed his sunglasses, put them in his breast pocket, and put on his bifocals. He said to his pilot, “I have been thinking of this coincidence that you have a friend on Long Island.”

“Yeah?”

“I have a client on Long Island, whose name is also Jim.”

“Can’t be Jim McCoy.”

“Yes, that is the name.”

“He’s a client of yours? Jim McCoy?”

“This is the man who is the director of an aviation museum?”

“
Yeah!
I’ll be damned. How do you know him?”

“He buys cotton canvas from my factory in Sicily. This is a special cotton that is made for oil paintings, but it is excellent for use to cover the frames of the old aircraft in his museum.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. You sell canvas to Jim?”

“To his museum. I have never met him, but he was very pleased with the quality of my cotton canvas. It is not as heavy as sail canvas, and because it must be stretched over the wooden frames of the ancient aircraft, the lightness is desirable.” Khalil tried to recall what else he’d been told in Tripoli, and continued, “And, of course, since it is made for artists, it has the ability to absorb the aircraft paint much better than sail canvas, which in any case is a rarity today, as most sails now are made from synthetic fibers.”

“No shit?”

Khalil stayed silent a moment, then asked, “Perhaps we can visit Mr. McCoy this evening?”

Bill Satherwaite thought a moment, then said, “I guess so ... I can give him a call ...”

“I will not take advantage of your friendship with him and will make no business talk. I want only to see the aircraft on which my canvas has been used.”

“Sure. I guess ...”

“And, of course, for this favor, I would insist on giving you a small gift ... perhaps five hundred dollars.”

“Done. I’ll call him at his office and see if he’s still in.”

“If not, perhaps you can call his home and ask for him to meet us at the museum.”

“Sure. Jim would do that for me. He wanted to give me a tour anyway.”

“Good. There may not be time in the morning.” Khalil added, “In any case, I wish to donate two thousand square meters of canvas to the museum, for good publicity, and this will give me an opportunity to present my gift.”

“Sure. Hey, what a coincidence. Small world.”

“And it gets smaller each year.” Khalil smiled to himself. It was not necessary that this pilot facilitate his meeting with former Lieutenant McCoy, but it made things somewhat easier. Khalil had McCoy’s home address, and it didn’t matter if he killed the man at home with his wife, or if he killed him in his office at the museum. The museum would be better, but only because of the symbolism of the act. The only thing of importance was that he, Asad Khalil, needed to be flying west tonight for the final portion of his business trip to America.

So far, he thought, everything was going as planned. In a day or two, someone in the American Intelligence services would make the connections between these seemingly unconnected deaths. But even if they did, Asad Khalil was prepared to die now, having already accomplished so much: Hambrecht, Waycliff, and Grey. If he could add McCoy, all the better. But if they were waiting for him at the airport, or at the museum, or at the home of McCoy, or at all three places, at least this pig sitting beside him would die. He glanced at his pilot and smiled.
You are dead, Lieutenant Satherwaite, but you don’t know it
.

They were still descending toward Long Island, and Khalil could see the coastline ahead. There were many lights along the coast, and Khalil now saw the tall buildings of New York City to his left. He asked, “We will fly near to Kennedy Airport?”