The Lion's Game (78 page)

Mr. Rahman was properly terrified.

By this time, the Federal agents in the room, including Kate, had stepped away and were actually looking the other way, literally.

I informed Mr. Rahman, “I’m going to blow your fucking brains out, unless you answer my questions.”

Mr. Rahman’s eyes got very wide, and he was starting to comprehend that there was a difference between me and the others. He wasn’t sure what the difference was, but to help him toward a complete understanding, I gave him a knee in the nuts.

He let out a groan.

The thing is, when you start this course of action, you better be real sure that the guy whose rights you may be infringing upon knows the answers to the questions he’s being asked, and that he will give you those answers. Otherwise, contract agent or not, my ass was hanging out. But nothing succeeds like success, so I kneed him again to encourage him to share his knowledge with me.

A few of my colleagues left the room, leaving only Edie, Tom, and Kate to witness that Mr. Rahman was a voluntary witness whose cooperation was not coerced, and so forth.

I said to Mr. Rahman, “Look, asshole, you can go to jail for the rest of your fucking life, or maybe get the gas chamber as an accessory to murder. You understand that?”

He wasn’t sucking on my automatic any longer, but still he refused to say anything.

I hate to leave marks, so I shoved my handkerchief down Mr. Rahman’s throat and pinched his nostrils shut. He didn’t seem able to breathe through his ears, and he began thrashing around, trying to get my two hundred pounds off his chest.

I heard Tom clear his throat.

I let Mr. Rahman turn a little blue, then took my fingers off his nose. He caught his breath in time to get another knee in his nuts.

I really wished that Gabe were there to instruct me on what worked, but he wasn’t, and I didn’t have much more time to mess around with this guy, so I held his nostrils again.

Without going into details, Mr. Azim Rahman saw the advantage of cooperating and indicated his willingness to do so. I pulled the handkerchief out of his mouth, and jerked him up into a sitting position. I asked him again, “Who sent you here?”

He sobbed a little, and I could see that he was very conflicted about all of this. I reminded him, “We can help you. We can save your life. Talk to me, or I’ll put you back in that fucking van, and you can go meet your friend and explain things to
him
. You want to do that? You want to go? I’ll let you go.”

He didn’t seem to want to go, so I asked him again, “Who sent you?” I added, “I’m tired of asking you the same fucking question. Answer me!”

He sobbed a little more, caught his breath, cleared his throat, and replied in a barely audible voice, “I do not know his name ... he ... I only knew him as Mr. Perleman, but—”

“Perleman?
Like in Jewish?”

“Yes ... but he was not Jewish ... he spoke my language ...”

Kate already had a photo in her hand, and she shoved it in his face.

Mr. Rahman stared at the photo a long time, then nodded.

Voil.!
I wasn’t going to jail.

I asked, “Does he look like this now?”

He shook his head. “He has now glasses ... a mustache ... his hair is now gray ...”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know ...”

“Okay, Azim, when was the last time you saw him, and where?”

“I ... I met him at the airport—”

“Which airport?”

“The airport in Santa Monica.”

“He flew in?”

“I don’t know ...”

“What time did you meet him?”

“Early ... six in the morning ...”

By now, with the rough stuff out of the way, and the witness cooperating, all six FBI folks were back in the living room, standing behind Mr. Rahman so as not to make him too nervous.

I, having secured the witness’s cooperation and trust, was the person who would ask most of the questions now. I asked Mr. Rahman, “Where did you take this man?”

“I ... took him ... he wanted to drive ... so we drove ...”

“Where?”

“We drive up the coast road ...”

“Why?”

“I do not know—”

“How long did you drive? Where did you go?”

“We drove to nowhere ... we drive ... perhaps an hour, or more, then we return here, and we find a shopping mall that was now open—”

“A
shopping mall?
What shopping mall?”

Mr. Rahman said he didn’t know the mall because he was not from around here. But Kim, who was from the Ventura office, knew it by Rahman’s description, and she quickly left the room to call the troops. But I had no doubt that Asad Khalil had not stuck around the mall all day.

I backtracked to the airport and asked Rahman, “You met him with your van?”

“Yes.”

“At the main terminal?”

“No ... at the other side. In a coffee shop ...”

Further questioning revealed that Mr. Rahman met Mr. Khalil at the General Aviation side of Santa Monica Airport, leading me to believe that Khalil had arrived by private plane. Made sense.

Then, with time to kill until dark, the two Libyan gents took a nice scenic drive up the coast, then got back to Ventura where Mr. Khalil expressed a desire to do a little shopping, maybe get a bite to eat, and maybe buy a few souvenirs. I asked Rahman, “What was he wearing?”

“A suit and a tie.”

“Color?”

“A gray ... a dark gray suit.”

“And what was he carrying? Luggage?”

“Only a bag, sir, which he disposed of as we drove. I drove him into a canyon.”

I looked around. “What’s a canyon?”

Tom explained. Sounded silly to me.

Back to Azim Rahman. I asked him, “Could you find this canyon again?”

“I ... I don’t know ... perhaps ... in the daytime ... I will try ...”

“You bet you will.” I then asked him, “Did you give him anything? Did you have a package for him?”

“Yes, sir. Two packages. But I do not know what they contained.”

Well, everyone there probably took the same course I did in something called Crateology, so I asked Mr. Rahman, “Describe the packages, the weight, size, all of that.”

Mr. Rahman described a generic box, about the size of a microwave oven, except it was light, leading us all to believe it may have contained a change of clothes, and perhaps some documents. Crateology.

The second package was more interesting and scary. It was long. It was narrow. It was heavy. It did not contain a tie.

We all looked at one another. Even Azim Rahman knew what was in that package.

I turned my attention back to our star witness and asked him, “Did he also dispose of the packages, or does he still have them?”

“He has the packages.”

I thought a moment and concluded that Asad Khalil was now decked out in new duds, had new identity papers, and had a sniper rifle broken down in some sort of innocuous-looking bag, like a backpack.

I inquired of Mr. Rahman, “This man sent you here to see if Mr. Wiggins was home?”

“Yes.”

“You understand that this man is Asad Khalil, who killed everyone on board that aircraft that landed in New York.”

Mr. Rahman claimed that he didn’t make the connection, so I made it for him, and explained, “If you are helping this man, you will be shot, or hanged, or fried in the electric chair, or put to death by lethal injection, or put into the gas chamber. Or maybe we’ll chop your head off. You understand?”

I thought he was going to faint.

I continued, “But if you help us capture Asad Khalil, you get a million-dollar reward.” Not likely. “You saw that on television, didn’t you?”

He nodded enthusiastically, giving away the fact that he knew who his passenger had been.

“So, Mr. Rahman, stop dragging your ass. I want your full cooperation.”

“I am doing that, sir.”

“Good. Who hired you to meet this man at the airport?”

He cleared his throat again and replied, “I do not know ... truly, I do not know ...” He then went into a convoluted explanation of a mysterious man who accosted him one day, about two weeks ago, at the gas station in Hollywood where Mr. Rahman actually worked. The man asked his assistance in aiding a compatriot and offered him ten thousand dollars, ten percent then, ninety percent later, and so forth. Classic recruiting by an intelligence agent—maybe twice removed—of some poor schmuck who needed cash and had relatives in the old country. Dead end, since Mr. Rahman was not going to ever see this guy again to collect his nine Gs. I said to Rahman, “These people would kill you before they would pay you. You know too much. You understand?”

He understood.

“They picked you out of the Libyan community because you look like Asad Khalil, and you were sent here to see if there was a trap waiting for him. Not just to see if Wiggins was here. You understand?”

He nodded.

“And look at you now. Are you sure these people are your friends?”

He shook his head. The poor guy looked miserable, and I was feeling badly about kneeing him in the balls and almost suffocating him. But he’d brought it on himself.

I said, “Okay, here’s the big question, and your life depends on the answer. When, where, and how are you supposed to contact Asad Khalil?”

He took a long, deep breath and replied, “I am to call him.”

“Okay. Let’s call him. What’s the number?”

Azim Rahman recited a telephone number, and Tom said, “That’s a cell phone number.”

Mr. Rahman agreed and said, “Yes, I gave this man a cell phone. I was instructed to buy two cell phones ... the other is in my vehicle.”

Kate had that cell phone, which had a Caller ID on it, and I assumed Asad Khalil’s cell phone also had a Caller ID. I asked Mr. Rahman, “What is the telephone company for these cell phones?”

He thought a moment, then replied, “Nextel.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I was instructed to use Nextel.”

I looked at Tom, who shook his head, meaning they couldn’t trace a Nextel call. In reality, it was difficult to trace
any
cell phone, though back at 26 Federal Plaza and One Police Plaza, we had these devices called Trigger Fish and Swamp Box that could at least tell you the general location of an AT&T or Bell Atlantic call. Mr. Rahman’s friends had apparently ignored the enticements and bullying of the big carriers and taken advantage of an unadvertised feature of a smaller carrier, a feature known in the trade as the Fuck the Feds Feature. These people were not as stupid as some of their compatriots. Bad break for us, but there had been a lot of them, and this wasn’t the last.

It was time to make Mr. Rahman more comfortable, so Tom uncuffed him. Rahman rubbed his wrists, and we helped him to his feet.

He seemed to have difficulty standing straight and complained about a pain in an unspecified area.

We sat Mr. Rahman down in a nice easy chair, and Kim went into the kitchen to get him a cup of coffee.

Everyone was a little more optimistic, though the chances of Azim Rahman bullshitting Asad Khalil into thinking everything was fine at the Wiggins house were pretty slim. But you never know. Even a smart guy like Khalil could be conned if he was obsessed with a goal, like murdering someone.

Kim returned with a black coffee, which Mr. Rahman sipped. Okay, coffee break is over. I said to our government witness, “Look at me, Azim. Is there a code word you’re supposed to use for danger?”

He looked at me like I’d discovered the secret of the universe. He said, “Yes. This is so. If I am ... as I am now ... then I am to say the word ‘Ventura’ in my talk to him.” He gave us a nice example, by using the word in a sentence like I had to do in school, and said, “Mr. Perleman, I have delivered the package to Ventura.”

“Okay, make sure you don’t say the word ‘Ventura,’ or I’ll have to kill you.”

He nodded vigorously.

So, Edie went into the kitchen to take the house phone off the hook, everyone shut off their cell phones, and if there had been a dog in the house, he would have gotten a nice walk.

I looked at my watch and saw that Mr. Rahman had been here about twenty minutes, which was not long enough to make Khalil nervous. I asked Azim, “Was there a specific time you were supposed to call?”

“Yes, sir. I was to deliver my package at nine P.M., then to drive ten minutes and make the telephone call from my van.”

“Okay, tell him you got lost for a few minutes. Take a deep breath, relax, and think nice thoughts.”

Mr. Rahman went into a deep-breathing meditation mode.

I asked him, “You watch the
X-Files
?”

I thought I heard Kate groan.

Mr. Rahman smiled and said, “Yes, I have watched this.”

“Good. Scully and Mulder work for the FBI. Just like us. Do you like Scully and Mulder?”

“Yes.”

“They’re the good guys. Right? We’re the good guys.” He was polite enough not to bring up the subject of me knocking his nuts around. As long as he didn’t forget it. I said, “And, we will make sure you are safely moved to wherever you want to live. I can get you out of California,” I assured him. I asked, “Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“Kids?”

“Five.”

I’m glad he had the kids before he met me. I said, “You’ve heard of the Witness Protection Program. Right?”

“Yes.”

“And you get some money. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Are you supposed to meet this man after your telephone call?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Where?”

“Where he says.”

“Right. Make sure your telephone call leads to that meeting. Yes?”

I didn’t get an enthusiastic response. I asked Mr. Rahman, “If all he needed from you was to come here and see if Wiggins was home, or to see if the police were here, why does he need to meet you again?”