The Lion's Game (82 page)

“Yes. But there are hundreds of private jets filing flight plans every day. We’re concentrating on non-corporate and foreign corporate charters, flights paid for by suspicious means and by non-repeat customers, and customers who may appear foreign, and so on. It’s a long, long shot. But we have to give it a try.”

“Right. How do you think this asshole is going to get out of the country?”

“Good question. Canadian security is tight and cooperative, but I can’t say the same for our Mexican neighbors.”

“I guess not with fifty thousand illegals crossing every month, not to mention tons of Mexican marching powder blowing across the border. Did you alert the DEA, Customs, and Immigration?”

“Of course. And they’ve assigned extra personnel and so have we. It’s going to be a rough month for drug dealers and illegals. Also, we’ve alerted the Coast Guard. It’s a short boat hop from southern California to the beaches of Mexico. We’ve done everything we can in cooperation with several local and Federal agencies—as well as our Mexican allies—to intercept the suspect if he tries to flee across the U.S.-Mexican border.”

“Are you on TV now?”

“No. Why?”

“You sound like you’re on TV.”

“That’s the way I talk. That’s the way you should talk tomorrow afternoon. Keep the fuck word to a minimum.”

I actually smiled.

So, we discussed the subject of the manhunt for a while, and finally Jack said, “John, it’s taken care of. And it’s out of your hands.”

“Not quite. Look, I want to get back here as soon as this press conference is over tomorrow.”

“That’s a reasonable request. Let’s see how you do at the press conference.”

“One has nothing to do with the other.”

“It does now.”

“Okay. I get it.”

“Good. Tell me about your phone conversation with Asad Khalil.”

“Well, we didn’t have a whole lot in common. Didn’t someone brief you about that?”

“Yes, but I want to get a feeling from you about Khalil’s mood, his state of mind, the possibility that he might be heading home or staying around. That sort of thing.”

“Okay ... I had the feeling I was talking to a man who was very much in control of himself and his emotions. Worse, he came across as though he were still in control of the situation, despite the fact that we fucked up his plans. I mean, that we
thwarted
his plans.”

Jack stayed silent a moment, then said, “Go on.”

“Well, if I had to bet, I’d bet that he was planning to stick around.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Just one of those feelings I get. By the way, speaking of bets, I want Nash’s ten dollars, and his buddy Edward’s twenty dollars.”

“But you said Khalil was in the New York area.”

“He
was
. Then he left, then he came back to Long Island. Point is, he didn’t fly out to Sandland.” I looked at Kate for support. This was important.

Kate said, “John is right. He won the bets.”

Jack replied, “Okay. I’ll accept Kate’s impartial opinion.” Ha, ha. Then Jack said, seriously, “So, John, you have a feeling now that Asad Khalil is still in your area?”

“I do.”

“But this is just a feeling?”

“If you mean am I holding something back, I’m not. Even I know when to come clean. But ... how can I put this? ... well ... Khalil said to me that he sort of felt my presence before he ... this is stupid. Mystical Sandland stuff. But I sort of feel this guy’s presence. You know?”

There was a long silence as Jack Koenig probably looked up the phone number of the Task Force psychiatric office. Finally, he said kindly, “Well, I’ve learned not to bet money against you.”

I thought he was going to tell me to get some sleep, but instead he addressed Kate and asked, “Are you going to the L.A. office?”

She replied, “Yes. I think it’s a good idea to say hello, establish a working relationship, and see if we can be of any help when we return.”

“You have friends there, I understand.”

“I do.”

There may have been some subtext here regarding Kate’s hour-long sexual history, but I wasn’t jealous, and I wasn’t going to be baited any longer. The hook was already in, the big fish had been reeled up and was now flopping around on the deck, gasping for air, to use an appropriate metaphor. So, Kate didn’t need to use old boyfriends or suitors, such as Teddy, to get John to get off his ass and pop the question.

Jack and Kate chatted a minute about some people they knew in common in L.A., then Jack said, “Okay, pick a flight to Dulles, but no later than the red-eye.”

Kate assured him we’d be on the red-eye at the latest.

Jack was about to sign off, but it was time for my Columbo moment and I said, “Oh, one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“The rifle.”

“What rifle?”

“The rifle that was in the long package.”

“Oh ... yes, I did question Mr. Rahman about that package. So has everyone else in L.A. and Washington.”

“And?”

“Rahman and his family are under protective custody.”

“Good. That’s where they belong. And?”

“Well, the agents in L.A. made Rahman draw and describe the package. And they put together a box that Rahman says is the same size as the one he gave to Khalil, give or take an inch.”

“And?”

“And, they put metal weights in the box until Rahman felt that the weight was about the same. Muscle memory. Are you familiar—”

“Yeah. And?”

“Well, it was an interesting experiment, but it proves nothing. Nylon and plastic stock rifles are light, older rifles are heavy. Hunting rifles are long, assault rifles are shorter. There’s no way to determine if that was a rifle in the package.”

“I understand that. Was this rifle long and heavy?”

“If it
was
a rifle, it was a long and heavy rifle.”

“Like a hunting rifle, with a scope.”

“That’s right,” Jack said.

“Okay, worst-case scenario. It’s a long, accurate, hunting rifle with a scope. What is Khalil going to do with it?”

“The feeling is that this was a backup in the event that Wiggins was not at home. In other words, Khalil was prepared to hunt Wiggins as he camped in the woods.”

“Really?”

“It’s a theory. You have another theory?”

“Not at the moment. But I’m picturing Chip and his babe in the woods, camping out, and I’m wondering why Khalil, with new hiking duds, doesn’t just go up to them and share a cup of coffee around the campfire, then casually mention that he’s there to kill Chip and tell him why before he puts a forty caliber slug in his head. Capisce?”

Jack let a few seconds go by, then said, “Wiggins, as it turns out, was camping with about a dozen friends, so Khalil—”

“Doesn’t wash, Jack. Khalil would do whatever he had to do to look Chip Wiggins in the eye before he killed him.”

“Maybe. Okay, the other theory, which may make more sense, is that if this package contained a rifle, the rifle is to be used to help Khalil make his escape. For instance, if he had to take out a border patrol guy at the Mexican border, or if he got chased on the sea by a Coast Guard cutter. Something like that. He wants a long-range weapon for any situation that may arise during his escape from the U.S.” Jack added, “He needed an accomplice anyway—Rahman—so why not have Rahman deliver a rifle along with whatever else he delivered? Rifles are easy to buy.”

“They’re not easy to hide.”

“They can be broken down. I mean, we are not discounting the possibility that Asad Khalil has a sniper rifle and that he intends to kill someone, who he would have trouble getting within pistol range of. But it really doesn’t fit his stated mission or his MO. You said so yourself. Up close and personal.”

“Right. Actually, I think there was a patio furniture set in that box. You ever see how they pack that cheap shit in the discount stores? Ten-piece patio furniture set in a box no bigger than a shirt box. Six chairs, a table, umbrella, and two chaise lounges made in Taiwan. Put Slot A into Slot B. Okay, see you in D.C.”

“Right. We’ll make the travel arrangements here. I’ll fax the flight info to the L.A. office. Press conference is at five P.M. at J. Edgar. I know John enjoyed his last visit there. And again, congratulations to both of you on a fine job and on your engagement. You set a date yet?”

Kate replied, “June.”

“Good. Short engagements are best. I hope I’m invited.”

“Of course you are,” Kate assured him.

I hit the Disconnect button.

Kate and I sat silently for a minute, then she said to me, “I’m concerned about that rifle.”

“And well you should be.”

“I mean ... I’m not the nervous type, but he could be gunning for us.”

“Possibly. You want to borrow the Little Italy T-shirts again?”

“The what?”

“Bulletproof vests.”

She laughed. “You have a way with words.”

Anyway, we went back into the common area and had an informal stand-up meeting with the six people there, including Juan, Edie, and Kim. We drank some coffee, and Edie told us, “We’re getting Mr. Rahman back from L.A. in about half an hour. We’re going to take him out to look for the canyon where he took Khalil to drop that bag.”

I nodded. Something about that bothered me, too. I realized that Khalil had to kill time at that early morning hour before the stores opened or whatever, but he really could have had Rahman just take him to a cheap motel. Why did he drive an hour north up the coast highway and ditch the bag?

Anyway, I didn’t ask Cindy for the bulletproof vests and neither did Kate. I mean, all we were going to do today was drive around L.A. On the other hand, that may have been reason enough to have bulletproof vests. New York joke.

But Cindy did give us two nice overnight canvas bags with big FBI logos on them as souvenirs of our visit, and perhaps as a way of saying, “We don’t want to see you again.” But maybe I was projecting.

So, Kate and I put our few toiletries in our bags, and we were ready to go to the Los Angeles office. We discovered that there was no helicopter available, which is sometimes a tip-off that your stock is slipping. However, there was a car available, sans driver, and Cindy gave us the keys. Kate assured her that she knew the way. California people are really nice.

So, we all shook hands and promised to stay in touch, and we were invited back anytime, to which I replied, “We’ll be back day after tomorrow.” This had the same effect as if I’d broken wind.

Anyway, we left, found the blue government Ford Crown Victoria in the lot, and Kate slipped behind the wheel.

She seemed very excited about driving in California again, and informed me we’d take the scenic coast road to Santa Monica, via Santa Santa, then Las Santa Santos, then some other Santas. I didn’t really give a rat’s ass, but if she was happy, then I was happy. Right?

We drove down this coastal highway, through Santa Oxnard, and south toward the City of Angels. The water was on our right, mountains to our left. Blue skies, blue water, blue car, Kate’s blue eyes. Perfect.

Kate said it was about an hour’s drive to the FBI field office on Wilshire Boulevard, near the UCLA campus in Westwood, and also near Beverly Hills.

I asked her, “Why isn’t the office downtown?
Is
there a downtown?”

“There is, but the FBI seems to prefer certain neighborhoods over others.”

“Like expensive, white, non–inner city neighborhoods.”

“Sometimes. That’s why I don’t like lower Manhattan. It’s incredibly congested.”

“It’s incredibly alive and interesting. I’m going to take you to Fraunces Tavern. You know, where Washington bid farewell to his officers. He got out on three-quarter disability.”

“And went to live in Virginia. He couldn’t stand the congestion.”

So, we did the California–New York thing for a while as Kate drove. Then she asked me, “Are you happy?”

“Beyond happy.”

“Good. You look less panicky.”

“I have surrendered to the light.” I said, “Tell me about the L.A. office. What did you do there?”

“It was an interesting assignment. It’s the third largest field office in the country. About six hundred agents. Los Angeles is the bank robbery capital of the country. We had close to three thousand bank robberies a year, and—”

“Three
thousand?”

“Yes. Mostly druggies. Small-time cash snatches. There are hundreds of small branch offices in L.A., plus there are all these freeways, so the robbers can make easy escapes. In New York, the robber would be sitting in a taxi for half an hour at a stop light. Anyway, this was more of a nuisance than anything else. Very few people got hurt. I was actually in my bank branch office once when it was getting robbed.”

“How much did you get?”

She laughed. “I didn’t get anything, but the perp got ten to twenty.”

“You collared him?”

“I did.”

“Tell me about it.”

“No big deal. The guy was ahead of me in line, he passes a note to the teller, and she gets all nervous, so I knew what was coming down. She fills a bag with money, the guy turns to leave, and finds himself staring at my gun. It’s a stupid crime. Small money, big Federal rap, and between the FBI and the police, we solved over seventy-five percent of the bank robberies.”

We chatted about Kate’s two years in L.A., and she said, “Also, it’s the only field office in the country with two full-time media representatives. We got lots of high-profile cases that needed media fixes. Lots of celebrity stalker cases. I met a few movie stars, and once I had to live in this star’s mansion and travel with him for a few weeks because someone had threatened his life, and it looked like a serious threat. Then there were the Asian organized crime syndicates. The only shoot-out I ever had was with a bunch of Korean smugglers. Those guys are tough cookies. But we have some Korean-Americans in the office who have penetrated the syndicates. Am I boring you?”