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Authors: Nelson DeMille

The Lion's Game (80 page)

BOOK: The Lion's Game
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I said, “Okay. Let’s blow this place.”
We went back into the living room to wrap it up and say good night. Rahman had disappeared somewhere, and everyone was looking a little down. Tom said to Kate and me, “I called Chuck to give you a lift to a motel.”
Just then, Tom’s cell phone rang, and everyone became quiet. He put the phone to his ear and listened, then said, “Okay ... okay ... no, don’t stop him ... we’ll handle it here.” He hung up and said to us, “Elwood Wiggins is coming home.” He added, “Lady in the car with him.”
Tom said to everyone, “We’ll all stay here in the living room, and let Mr. Wiggins and his friend enter his house—through the garage or the front door. When he sees us—”
“We all yell, ‘Surprise!’ ” I suggested.
Tom actually smiled and said, “Bad idea. I will put him at ease and explain the situation.”
I hate it when they faint, or bolt out the door. Half the time they think you’re bill collectors.
Anyway, I didn’t need to be around for this interesting moment, but then I decided I’d like to meet Chip Wiggins, just to satisfy my curiosity and see what he looked and sounded like. God, I’m convinced, looks after His most clueless and carefree creations.
A few minutes later, we could hear a car pull up in the driveway, the garage door opened, then closed, followed by the kitchen door opening, then a light went on in the kitchen.
We could hear Mr. Wiggins rummaging around the kitchen and opening the refrigerator. Finally, he said to his lady friend, “Hey, where did all this food come from?” Then, “Whose baseball hats are these? Hey, Sue, these hats say FBI.”
Sue said, “I think someone was in here, Chip.”
What was your first clue, sweetheart?
“Yeah,” Chip agreed, maybe wondering if he had the right house.
We waited patiently for Mr. Wiggins to come into the living room.
He said, “Stay here. I’ll check it out.”
Chip Wiggins walked into his living room and stopped dead in his tracks.
Tom said, “Please don’t be alarmed.” He held up his badge case. “FBI.”
Chip Wiggins looked at the four men and four women standing in his living room. He said, “Wha ... ?”
Chip was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and hiking boots, and looked fairly tan and fit, and younger than his age. Everyone in California looks tan and fit and young, except people like me, who are just passing through.
Tom said, “Mr. Wiggins, we’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Hey, what’s this about?”
The lady friend peeked around the door jamb and said, “Chip, what’s happening?”
Chip explained to her where the FBI hats had come from.
After a minute or so, Chip was seated, the lady was escorted into the TV room by Edie, and Chip was relaxed, but curious. The lady, by the way, was a knockout, but I didn’t notice.
Tom began by saying, “Mr. Wiggins, this matter concerns the bombing mission you participated in on April fifteen, nineteen eighty-six.”
“Oh, shit.”
“We took the liberty of entering your house based on information that a Libyan terrorist—”
“Oh, shit.”
“—was in the area, and was looking to harm you.”
“Oh, shit.”
“We have the situation under control, but I’m afraid we’re going to ask you to take some time off from work, and take a vacation.”
“
Huh ... ?”
“This man is still at large.”
“Shit.”
Tom gave Chip some of the background, then said, “I’m afraid we have some bad news for you. Some of your squadron mates have been murdered.”
“
What?”
“Killed by this man, Asad Khalil.” Tom gave Chip a photograph of Khalil, which he encouraged Chip to look at and to keep.
Chip stared at the photograph, put it down and said, “Who was killed?”
Tom replied, “General Waycliff and his wife—”
“Oh, my God ... Terry is dead? And Gail ... ?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. Also, Paul Grey, William Satherwaite, and James McCoy.”
“Oh, my God ... oh, shit ... oh ...”
“And, as you may know, Colonel Hambrecht was murdered in England in January.”
Chip got himself under control, and the realization dawned on him that he’d had a close call with the Grim Reaper. “Holy shit ...” He stood and looked around, as if trying to spot a terrorist. He said, “Where is this guy?”
“We’re trying to apprehend him,” Tom assured Chip. “We can stay here tonight with you, though I don’t think he’ll show up here, or we’ll wait until you pack, and escort you—”
“I’m outta here.”
“Fine.”
Chip Wiggins stood in deep thought for a moment, perhaps the deepest thinking he’d done in some time, and said, “You know, I always knew ... I mean, I told Bill that day, after we’d released and were heading back ... I told him those bastards weren’t going to let that one go ... oh, shit ... Bill is dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Bob? Bob Callum?”
“He’s under close protection.”
I spoke up and said to Chip, “Why don’t you go visit him?”
“Yeah ... good idea. He’s at the Air Force Academy?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “We can keep an eye on both of you there.” And it’s cheaper that way.
Well, no use hanging around, so Kate and I made our farewells, while Chip went off to pack. He looked like the kind of guy who’d loan you a pair of underwear, but he had enough on his mind.
Kate and I went outside and stood in the balmy air, waiting for Chuck. Kate observed, “Chip Wiggins is a very lucky man.”
“No kidding. Did you see that babe?”
“Why do I even try to talk to you?”
“Sorry.” I thought a moment, then said, “Why did he need the rifle?”
“Who? Oh, you mean Khalil.”
“Yeah. Khalil. Why did he need the rifle?”
“We don’t know it was a rifle.”
“Let’s say it was. Why did he need the rifle? Not to kill Chip in his house.”
“That’s true. But maybe he wanted to kill him someplace else. In the woods.”
“No, this guy is up close and personal. I
know
he talks to his victims before he kills them. Why does he need the rifle? To kill someone he can’t get close to. Someone he doesn’t need to talk to.”
“I think you have a point there.”
The car came, and we got in—me in the front, Kate in the back, Chuck at the wheel. He said, “Tough break. You want a good motel?”
“Sure. With mirrors on the ceiling.”
Someone behind me smacked my head.
So, off we went, toward the ocean, where Chuck said there were a few nice motels with an ocean view.
I asked Chuck, “Is there an all-night, drive-thru underwear place in the area?”
“A what?”
“You know. Like California has all these all-night, drive-thru places. I wondered if—”
Kate said, “John, shut up. Chuck, ignore him.”
As we drove, Chuck and Kate talked about logistics and scheduling for the next day.
I was thinking about Mr. Asad Khalil and our conversation. I was trying to put myself into his disturbed mind, trying to think what I’d do next if I were him.
The one thing I was sure of was that Asad Khalil was
not
heading home. We would hear from him again. Soon.
Chuck made a call from his cell phone and reserved us two rooms at a place called the Ventura Inn, on the beach. He used my credit card number, got the reduced government rate, and assured me it was a reimbursable expense.
Chuck handed a small paper bag to Kate and said, “I stopped and got you a toothbrush and toothpaste. If you need anything else, we can stop.”
“This is fine.”
“What did you get me?” I asked.
He produced another paper bag from under his seat and handed it to me, saying, “I got you some nails to chew on.”
Chuckle, chuckle.
I opened the bag and found toothpaste, toothbrush, a razor, and a travel-size can of shaving cream. “Thanks.”
“On the government.”
“I’m overwhelmed.”
“Right.”
I put the stuff in my jacket pockets. Within ten minutes we reached a high-rise building, whose marquee announced itself as the Ventura Inn Beach Resort. Chuck pulled up to the reception doors and said, “Our office will be staffed all night, so if you need anything, give a call.”
I said to Chuck, “If anything pops, make sure
you
call
us
, or I’ll be very, very angry.”
“You’re the man, John. Tom was impressed with how you got that delivery guy to voluntarily cooperate.”
I said, “A little psychology goes a long way.”
“To tell you the truth, there’re a lot of lotus-eaters out here. It’s good to see a meat-eating dinosaur once in a while.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Sort of. So, what time do you want to be picked up in the morning?”
Kate replied, “Seven-thirty.”
Chuck waved and drove off.
I said to her, “Are you crazy? That’s four-thirty in the morning, New York time.”
“It’s
ten
-thirty A.M., New York time.”
“Are you sure?”
She ignored me and walked into the motel lobby. I followed.
It was a pleasant place, and I could hear a piano playing through the lounge door.
The check-in guy greeted us warmly and informed us that he had deluxe ocean-view rooms for us on the twelfth floor. Nothing too good for the guardians of Western Civilization.
I asked him, “What ocean?”
“Pacific, sir.”
“Do you have anything overlooking the Atlantic?”
He smiled.
Kate and I filled out the registration forms, and the guy made an impression of my American Express card, which I think let out a groan as it passed through the machine.
Kate took a photo out of her bag, along with her credentials, and said to the clerk, “Have you seen this man?”
The clerk seemed less happy than he’d been when he thought we were just passing through for the night. He stared at the photo of Asad Khalil, then replied, “No, ma’am.”
Kate said, “Keep that. Call us if you see him.” She added, “He’s wanted for murder.”
The clerk nodded and put the photo behind the counter.
Kate told him, “Pass it on to your relief person.”
We got our keycards, and I suggested a drink in the lounge.
Kate said, “I’m exhausted. I’m going to sleep.”
“It’s only ten.”
“It’s one A.M. in New York. I’m tired.”
I had this sudden unhappy thought that I was going to drink alone and sleep alone.
We went to the elevators and rode up in silence.
At about the tenth floor, Kate asked me, “Are you sulking?”
“Yes.”
The elevator reached the top floor, and we got out. Kate said, “Well, I don’t want you to sulk. Come into my room for a drink.”
So, we went into her room, which was big, and with no luggage to unpack, we quickly made two Scotch and sodas from the mini-bar and retired to the balcony. She said, “Let’s forget the case tonight.”
“Okay.” We sat in the two chairs with a round table between us and contemplated the moonlit ocean.
This somehow reminded me of my convalescent stay at my uncle’s house on the water on eastern Long Island. It reminded me of the night Emma and I sat drinking cognac after a skinny-dip in the bay.
I was sliding into a bad mood and tried to get out of it.
Kate asked me, “What are you thinking about?”
“Life.”
“Not a good idea.” She said, “Did it ever occur to you that you’re in this business, working long, hard hours because you don’t want to have the time to think about your life?”
“Please.”
“Listen to me. I really care for you, and I sense that you’re looking for something.”
“Clean underwear.”
“You can
wash
your fucking underwear.”
“I never thought of that.”
“Look, John, I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve never come close to getting married.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“Well, for your information, it wasn’t for lack of offers.”
“Gotcha.”
“Do you think you’d get married again?”
“How far a fall do you think it is from this balcony?”
I thought she’d get angry over my flippancy, but instead, she laughed. Sometimes a guy can do no right, sometimes a guy can do no wrong. It has nothing to do with what a guy does; it has to do with the woman.
Kate said to me, “Anyway, you did a hell of a job today. I’m impressed. And I even learned a few things.”
“Good. When you ram your knee into a guy’s balls from that position, you may actually pop his nuts into his abdomen. So you have to be careful.”
Smart lady that she was, she said, “I don’t think you’re a violent or sadistic man. I think you do what you have to do when you have to do it. And I think you don’t like it. That’s important.”
See what I mean? I could do no wrong in Kate’s eyes.
She’d put two more little bottles of Scotch in her jacket pocket, and she opened them and poured them in our glasses. After a minute or so, she said, “I ... know about that thing that happened on Plum Island.”
“What thing?”
“When you disemboweled that guy.”
I took a deep breath, but didn’t reply.
She let a few seconds pass, then said, “We all have a dark side. It’s okay.”
“Actually, I enjoyed it.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t. But ... there were extenuating circumstances.”
“I know. He killed someone you cared for very much.”
“Let’s drop the subject.”
“Sure. But I wanted you to know that I understand what happened and why.”
“Good. I’ll try not to do that again.” See what I mean? I cut this guy’s guts out, and it’s okay. Actually, it
was
okay because he deserved it.
Anyway, we let that subject cool off awhile. We drank and stared at the mesmerizing ocean rolling toward the beach. You could hear the waves breaking softly against the shore. What a view. A breeze passed by, and I could smell the sea. I asked her, “You liked it here?”
“California is nice. The people are very friendly.”
People often mistake spacey for friendly—but why ruin her memory? “Did you have a boyfriend here?”
“Sort of.” She asked me, “Do you want my sexual history?”
“How long will that take?”
“Less than an hour.”
I smiled.
She asked me, “Was your divorce nasty?”
“Not at all. The marriage was nasty.”
“Why did you marry her?”
“She asked me.”
“Can’t you say no?”
“Well ... I thought I was in love. Actually, she was an ADA, and we were on the side of the angels. Then she took a high-powered job as a criminal defense attorney. She changed.”
“No, she didn’t. The job changed. Could
you
be a criminal defense attorney? Could you be a criminal?”
“I see your point. But—”
“And she made a lot more money defending criminals than you did arresting them.”
“Money had nothing to do—”
“I’m not saying what she does for a living is wrong. I’m saying that ... what’s her name?”
“Robin.”
“Robin was not right for you even when she was an assistant district attorney.”
“Good point. Can I jump now? Or is there more you need to tell me?”
“There is. Hold on. So, you meet Beth Penrose, who’s on the same side of the law that you’re on, and you’re reacting against your ex-wife. You feel comfortable with a cop. Maybe less guilty. I’m sure it was no fun around the station house being married to a criminal defense attorney.”
“I think that’s enough.”
“Actually, it’s not. Then I came along. Perfect trophy. Right? FBI. Attorney. Your boss.”
“Stop right there. Let me remind you that it was
you
— Forget it.”
“Are you angry?”
“You’re damned right I’m angry.” I stood. “I gotta go.”
She stood. “All right. Go. But you have to face some realities, John. You can’t hide behind that tough-guy, wise-ass exterior forever. Someday, maybe soon, you’re going to retire, and then you have to live with the real John Corey. No gun. No badge—”
“Shield.”
“No one to arrest. No one who needs you to protect them or to protect society. It’ll just be you, and you don’t even know who you are.”
“Neither do you. This is California psychobabble bullshit, and you’ve only been here since seven-thirty. Good night.”
I left the balcony, left her room, and went out into the corridor. I found my room next door and went in.
I kicked off my shoes, threw my jacket on the bed, and took off my holster, shirt, tie, and armored vest. Then I made a drink from the mini-bar.
I was pretty worked up and actually felt like crap. I mean, I knew what Kate was doing, and I knew it wasn’t malicious, but I really didn’t need to be prodded into confronting the monster in the mirror.
Ms. Mayfield, if I’d given her a few more minutes, would have painted a beautiful picture of how life could be if we were facing it together.
Women think the perfect husband is all they need for a perfect life. Wrong. First, there
are
no perfect husbands. Not even many good ones. Second, she was right about me, and I wasn’t going to get any better by living with Kate Mayfield.
I decided to wash my underwear, go to bed, and never see Kate Mayfield again after this case was concluded.
There was a knock on my door. I looked through the peephole and opened the door.
She stepped inside, and we stood there looking at each other.
I can be really tough in these situations, and I didn’t intend to give an inch, or to kiss and make up. I didn’t even feel like sex anymore.
However, she was wearing a white terry cloth hotel robe, which she opened and let fall to the floor, revealing her perfect naked body.
I felt my resolve softening at the same rate Mr. Happy was getting hard.
She said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but my shower doesn’t work. Could I use yours?”
“Help yourself.”
She went into my bathroom, turned on the shower, and got in.
Well, I mean, what was I supposed to do? I got out of my pants, shorts, and socks, and got into the shower.
For purposes of propriety, in case there was a middle-of-the-night phone call from the FBI, she left my room at 1:00 A.M.
I didn’t sleep particularly well and woke up at five-fifteen, which I guess was eight-fifteen on my body clock.
I went into the bathroom and saw that my undershorts were hanging on the retractable clothesline above the bathtub. They were clean, still damp, and someone had planted a lipstick kiss in a strategic spot.
I shaved, showered again, brushed my teeth and all that, then went out to the balcony and stood there naked in the breeze, looking at the dark ocean. The moon had set and the sky was full of stars. It doesn’t get much better than this, I decided.
I stood there a long time because it felt good.
I heard the sliding glass door on the other side of the concrete partition open. I called out, “Good morning.”
I heard her reply, “Good morning.”
The partition jutted out beyond the balconies, so I couldn’t peek around. I asked her, “Are you naked?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“Of course. This feels great.”
“Meet me for breakfast in half an hour.”
“Okay. Hey, thanks for washing my shorts.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
We were talking sort of loud, and I had the feeling other guests were listening. I think she had the same thought because she said, “What did you say your name was?”
“John.”
“Right. You’re a good lay, John.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
So, there we were, two mature Federal agents, standing naked on hotel balconies with a partition between us, acting silly, the way new lovers act.
She called out, “Are you married?”
“No. How about you?”
“No.”
So, what was my next line? Two simultaneous thoughts ran through my head. One, that I was being manipulated by a pro. Two, I loved it. Realizing that this moment and this setting was going to be remembered forever, I took a deep breath and asked, “Will you marry me?”
There was a long silence.
Finally, a woman’s voice, not Kate’s, called out from overhead, “Answer him!”
Kate called out, “Okay. I’ll marry you.”
Two people somewhere applauded. This was really dopey. I think I was actually embarrassed, which barely masked my sense of panic. What had I done?
I heard her sliding door close, so I couldn’t qualify my proposal.
I went into my room, got dressed sans body armor, and went downstairs to the breakfast room where I got coffee and a copy of the
New York Times
, hot off the press.
There was continuing coverage of the Flight 175 tragedy, but it seemed like a rehash of events with a few new quotes from Federal, state, and local officials.
BOOK: The Lion's Game
12.61Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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