Authors: Nelson DeMille

The Lion's Game (79 page)

BOOK: The Lion's Game

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Mr. Rahman had no idea, so I gave him an idea. “Because he wants to
kill
you, Azim. You know too much. Understand?”

Mr. Rahman swallowed hard and nodded.

I had some good news for him, and I said, “This man will be captured, and he will cause you no further trouble. If you do this for us, we will take you to lunch at the White House, and you will meet the President. Then we give you the money. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I took Tom to the side and said softly, “Does anyone here speak Arabic?”

He shook his head and said, “Never needed an Arabic speaker in Ventura.” He added, “Juan speaks Spanish.”

“Close enough.” I went back to Mr. Rahman and said, “Okay, dial the number. Keep the conversation in English. But if you can’t, my friend Juan here understands a little Arabic, so don’t fuck around. Dial.”

Mr. Azim Rahman took a deep breath, cleared his throat yet again and said, “I need to smoke a cigarette.”

Oh, shit! I heard a few groans. I said, “Does anyone here smoke?”

Mr. Rahman said, “You have taken my cigarettes.”

I informed him, “You can’t smoke your own, pal.”

“Why may I not—”

“In case they’re poison. I thought you watched the
X-Files
.”

“Poison? They are not poison.”

“Of course they are. Forget the cigarettes.”

“I must have a cigarette. Please.”

I know the feeling. I said to Tom, “I’ll light one of his.”

Tom produced Azim’s cigarettes—not Camels—and in an act of uncommon bravery, put one in his own mouth and flipped Azim’s lighter. Tom said to Azim, “If this is poison, and it harms me, my friends will—”

I helped out and said, “We’ll cut you up with knives and feed the pieces to a dog.”

Azim looked at me. He said, “Please. I want only a cigarette.”

Tom lit up, took a drag, coughed, didn’t die, and handed the cigarette to Azim, who puffed away without dropping dead.

I said, “Okay, my friend. Time to make your telephone call. Keep it in English.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.” He nursed the cigarette as he dialed the telephone, flipping the ash into his coffee cup. “I will try.”

“Try hard. And make sure you understand where you have to meet him.”

Rahman listened to the rings, which we could all hear, then Azim Rahman said into the telephone, “Yes, this is Tannenbaum.”

Tannenbaum?

He listened, then said, “I’m sorry. I became lost.”

He listened again, then suddenly the expression on his face changed, and he looked at us, then said something into the telephone. I have no idea what he said because it was in Arabic.

He continued the conversation in Arabic, making helpless shrugging gestures toward us. But Juan was cool, pretending to listen, nodding, even whispering in my ear. Juan whispered to me, “What the fuck is he saying?”

I made eye contact with Mr. Rahman, mouthed the word “Ventura” at him, and made a cutting gesture across my throat, which in Arabic or English or whatever is understandable.

He continued his conversation, and it was obvious, despite everyone’s lack of Arabic, that Mr. Khalil was putting Mr. Rahman on the spot. In fact, Mr. Rahman began to sweat. Finally, he put the cell phone to his chest and said simply, “He’s asking to speak to my new friends.”

No one said anything.

Mr. Rahman looked very distraught and said to us, “I am sorry. I tried. This man is too clever. He is asking me to sound the horn of my van. He knows. I did not tell him. Please. I do not want to speak to him.”

So, I took the cell phone and found myself talking to Asad Khalil. I said, pleasantly, “Hello? Mr. Khalil?”

A deep voice replied, “Yes. And who are you?”

It’s not a good idea to give a terrorist your name, so I said, “I am a friend of Mr. Wiggins.”

“Are you? And where is Mr. Wiggins?”

“He’s out and about. Where are
you
, sir?”

He laughed. Ha, ha. He said, “I, too, am out and about.”

I had turned up the volume and was keeping the phone away from my face, and I had seven heads around me. We were all interested in what Asad Khalil had to say, but also everyone was listening for a background sound that might be a clue as to where he was. I said, “Why don’t you come to Mr. Wiggins’ house and wait for him here?”

“Perhaps I’ll wait for him elsewhere.”

This guy was smooth. I didn’t want to lose him, so I resisted the temptation to call him a camel-fucking scumbag murderer. I felt my heart beating rapidly and took a breath.

“Hello? Are you there?”

I replied, “Yes, sir. Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

“Perhaps. But I don’t know who you are.”

“I am with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

There was a silence, then, “And do you have a name?”

“John. What would you like to tell me?”

“What would you like to know, John?”

“Well, I think I know almost everything there is to know. That’s why I’m here. Right?”

He laughed. I hate it when scumbags do that. He said, “Let me tell you some things you may not know.”

“Okay.”

“My name, as you know, is Asad, from the family of Khalil. I once had a father, a mother, two brothers, and two sisters.” He then proceeded to give me their names, and a few other details about his family, ending with, “They are all dead now.”

He went on, talking about the night of April 15, 1986, as though it was still fresh in his mind, which I guess it was. He ended his story with, “The Americans killed my entire family.”

I looked at Kate, and we nodded at each other. We’d gotten that part right, though it didn’t matter much anymore. I said to Asad Khalil, “I sympathize with you, and I—”

“I don’t need your sympathy.” Then he said, “I have lived my life to avenge my family and my country.”

This was going to be a difficult conversation, since we had so little in common, but I wanted to keep him on the line, so I used the techniques I’d learned in hostage negotiating class and said, “Well, I can certainly understand that. Now it may be time to tell the world your story.”

“Not yet. My story is not finished.”

“I see. Well, when it is, I’m sure you’d like to tell us all the details, and we’d like to give you an opportunity to do so.”

“I don’t need you to give me any opportunities. I make my own opportunities.”

I took a deep breath. The standard stuff didn’t seem to be working. But I tried again. “Look, Mr. Khalil, I’d like us to meet, to talk in person, alone—”

“I would welcome the opportunity to meet you alone. Perhaps we will someday.”

“How about today?”

“Another day. I may come to your home someday, as I came to the homes of General Waycliff and Mr. Grey.”

“Call before you come.”

He laughed. Well, the asshole was toying with me, but that’s okay. Part of the job. I didn’t think this was going anywhere, but if he wanted to talk, that was fine. I said to him, “How do you think you’re going to get out of the country, Mr. Khalil?”

“I don’t know. What would you suggest?”

Asshole
. “Well, how about we fly you to Libya in exchange for some people in Libya that we’d like to have here?”

“Who would you rather have in jail here more than me?”

Good point, asshole. “But if we catch up with you before you leave the country, we won’t offer you such a good deal.”

“You’re insulting my intelligence. Good night.”

“Hold on. You know, Mr. Khalil, I’ve been in this business for over twenty years, and you’re the ...”
Biggest scumbag
. “... the most clever man I’ve had to deal with.”

“Perhaps to you, everyone seems clever.”

I was about to lose it and took a deep breath and said, “Such as having that man killed in Frankfurt, so we would think it was you.”

“That was clever, yes. But not so clever.” He added, “And I congratulate you on keeping the newspeople in ignorance—or perhaps it was you who was ignorant.”

“Well, a little of both. Hey, for the record, Mr. Khalil, did you ... dispose of, I guess you’d say, anyone else we don’t know about yet?”

“Actually, I did. A motel clerk near Washington, and a gas station attendant in South Carolina.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“They saw my face.”

“I see. Well, that’s a good ... but the lady pilot in Jacksonville saw your face, too.”

There was a long pause, then Khalil replied, “So, you know a few details.”

“Sure do. Gamal Jabbar. Yusef Haddad on board the airliner. Why don’t you tell me about your travels and the people you’ve met along the way?”

He had no problem with that, and gave me a nice run-down on his travels by car and plane, the people he met and killed, where he’d stayed, things he’d seen and done, and all that. I thought maybe we could get a fix on him, if we could determine what false identity he’d used, but he burst my bubble and said, “I have a complete set of new identity, and I assure you I will have no problem leaving here.”

“When are you leaving?”

“When I wish to leave.” He then said, “My only regret, of course, is not being able to see Mr. Wiggins. As for Colonel Callum, may he suffer and die in agony.”

My goodness. What a prick. I got a little testy and said, “You can thank me for saving Wiggins’ life.”

“Yes? And who are you?”

“I told you. John.”

He stayed silent a moment, then said again, “Good night—”

“Hold on. I’m having a good time. Hey, did I tell you that I was one of the first Federal agents on board that aircraft?”

“Is that so?”

“You know what I’m wondering? I’m wondering if we saw one another. You think that’s possible?”

“It is possible.”

“I mean, you were wearing a blue Trans-Continental baggage handler’s jumpsuit. Right?”

“Correct.”

“Well, I was the guy in the light brown suit. I had this good-looking blonde with me.” I winked at Kate. “You remember us?”

He didn’t reply right away, then said, “Yes. I was standing on the spiral staircase.” He laughed. “You told me to get off the aircraft. Thank you.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. Was that you? Small world.”

Mr. Khalil picked up the ball and said, “In fact, I saw your photograph in the newspapers. You and the woman. Yes. And your name was mentioned in Mr. Weber’s memo that I found in your Conquistador Club. Mr. John Corey and Miss Kate Mayfield. Of course.”

“Hey, this is special. Really.”
You prick
.

“In fact, Mr. Corey, I believe I had a dream about you. Yes, it was a dream, and a feeling ... a presence, actually.”

“No kidding? Were we having fun?”

“You were trying to capture me, but I was more clever and much faster than you.”

“I had just the opposite dream. Hey, I’d really like to meet you and buy you a drink. You sound like a fun guy.”

“I don’t drink.”

“You don’t drink alcohol. You drink blood.”

He laughed. “Yes, in fact, I licked the blood of General Waycliff.”

“You’re a mentally deranged camel-fucker. You know that?”

He thought about that and said, “Perhaps we
will
meet before I leave. That would be very nice. How can I reach you?”

I gave him my number at the ATTF and said, “Call anytime. If I’m not in, leave a message, and I’ll get back to you.”

“And your home number?”

“You don’t need that. I’m at work most of the time.”

“And please tell Mr. Rahman someone will be calling on him, and the same to Mr. Wiggins.”

“You can forget that, sport. And by the way, when I catch up with you, I’m going to kick your balls into your mouth, then rip your head off, and shit down your neck.”

“We’ll see who catches who, Mr. Corey. And my regards to Miss Mayfield. Have a good day.”

“Your mother was fucking Gadhafi. That’s why Moammar had your father killed in Paris, you stupid—” The line was dead, and I stood there awhile, trying to get myself together. The room was really quiet.

Finally, Tom said, “You did a nice job.”

“Yeah.” I walked out of the living room, into the TV room to where I had spotted a bar, and poured myself a few inches of Scotch. I took a deep breath and drank it all.

Kate came into the room and asked softly, “You okay?”

“I will be soon. Want a drink?”

“Yes, but no thanks.”

I poured another and stared off into space.

Kate said, “I think we can go now.”

“Go where?”

“We’ll find a motel and stay in Ventura, then check in tomorrow with the L.A. office. I still know some people there, and I’d like you to meet them.”

I didn’t reply.

She said, “Then, I’ll show you around L.A., if you want, then back to New York.”

I said, “He’s here. He’s very close to here.”

“I know. So, we’ll stay around a few days and see what develops.”

“I want all car rental agencies checked, I want the Libyan community turned upside down, all ports of departure watched, the Mexican border under tight—”

“John, we know all of that. It’s in the works right now. Same as New York.”

I sat down and sipped my Scotch. “Damn it.”

“Look, we saved Wiggins’ life.”

I stood. “I’m going to sweat Rahman a little more.”

“He doesn’t know anything more, and you know it.”

I sat again and finished my Scotch. “Yeah ... well, I guess I’m out of ideas.” I looked at her. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s time to leave these people to their work. Let’s go.”

I stood. “Do you think they’ll let us play with the goo-gun?”

She laughed, the kind of laugh that’s more a sigh of relief when someone you like is getting weird, then gets back to normal.

BOOK: The Lion's Game

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