The Lion's Game (86 page)

“You’re the local.”

So we headed west through what Kate said was the San Fernando Valley. How do these people keep all the Sans and Santas straight? I was really tired, and I yawned again.

“Go to sleep.”

“No. I want to keep you company, to hear your voice.”

“Okay. Listen to this—why were you so nasty to Doug?”

“Who’s Doug? Oh, that guy. Do you mean in L.A. or in Bel Air?”

“Both.”

“Well, in Bel Air, I was pissed off at him because he knew the Reagans weren’t home, and he didn’t tell us where they were.”

“John, you didn’t know that until
after
you were nasty to him.”

“Let’s not split hairs over the sequence of events.”

She stayed silent awhile, then said, “I didn’t
sleep
with him, I just went out with him.” She added, “He’s married. Happily married with two kids in college.”

I saw no need to reply.

She pushed it a bit and said, “A little jealousy is all right, but you really—”

“Hold on. What do you call your stomping off back in New York?”

“That’s totally different.”

“Explain it to me, so I know.”

“You’re still involved with Beth. L.A. is history.”

“Gotcha. Let’s drop it.”

“Okay.” She took my hand and squeezed it.

So, I’ve been engaged for about twenty-four hours, and I didn’t know how I was going to make it to June.

Anyway, we made nice talk for about half an hour, and I noticed that we were in the mountains or hills or whatever, and it was really dangerous-looking, but Kate seemed very assured behind the wheel.

She asked me, “Do you have a plan or something for when we get to Santa Barbara?”

“Not really. We’ll wing it.”

“Wing what?”

“I don’t know. Something always pops up. Basically, we have to get to the ranch.”

“Forget it, as your friend Lisa would say.”

“Lisa who? Oh, that Secret Service woman.”

“There are a lot of beautiful women in California.”

“There’s only
one
beautiful woman in California. You.”

And so forth.

Kate’s cell phone rang, and it could only be Douglas Pindick checking up on us after discovering that we hadn’t checked into the designated airport hotel. I said, “Don’t answer it.”

“I have to answer it.” And she did. It was, indeed, Señor Sin Cojones. Kate listened a few seconds, then said, “Well ... we’re on One-Oh-One, heading north.” She listened, then replied, “That’s right ... we did discover that the Reagans are—” He obviously interrupted, and she listened.

I said, “Give me the phone.”

She shook her head and continued to listen.

I was really pissed off because I knew he was chewing her out, and you don’t do that to John Corey’s fiancée, unless you’re tired of living. I didn’t want to grab the phone from her, so I sat and stewed. I also wondered why he wasn’t asking to speak to me. No
cojones
.

Kate tried to say something a few times, but Doggy Dipshit kept interrupting. Finally, Kate butted into his little tirade and said, “Listen, Doug, I do
not
appreciate you withholding information from me and telling the Secret Service to withhold information. For
your
information, we were sent here by the co-commanders of the ATTF in New York, who have asked that the L.A. field office extend to us all courtesies and all aid and support necessary. The New York ATTF is the designated office on this case, and we are its representatives in L.A. I am, and have been, available by cell phone and beeper, and will remain so. All you need to know is that Mr. Corey and I will be on that flight this morning, unless we hear otherwise from our superiors in New York or Washington. And furthermore, it is not your business where I’m sleeping, or whom I’m sleeping with.” She hung up.

I wanted to say, “Bravo,” but it was best to say nothing.

We continued on in silence. A few minutes later, her cell phone rang again, and Kate answered it. I knew it couldn’t be Douglas Dinky Dork because he wouldn’t have the balls to call again. But I figured he’d called Washington and whined, and now Washington was calling us to pull the plug on our mission to the Reagan ranch. I was resigned to this. Therefore, I was pleasantly surprised and relieved when Kate handed me the phone and said, “It’s Paula Donnelly in the ICC. She has a gentleman on your direct line, who wants to speak to you and to you only.” She added, unnecessarily, “Asad Khalil.”

I put the phone to my ear and said to Paula, “This is Corey. Does this guy sound legit?”

Paula replied, “I’m not real sure what a mass murderer sounds like, but this guy said he spoke to you in Ventura and that you gave him your direct dial.”

“That’s the guy. Can you patch me through?”

“I can, but he doesn’t want me to. He wants your number, so I’ll give him Kate’s cell phone number, if that’s okay. I don’t think he’s going to give me his.”

“Okay. Give him this number. Thanks, Paula.” I hung up.

Neither Kate nor I spoke, and we waited for what seemed like a long time. Finally, her cell phone rang, and I answered it, “Corey.”

Asad Khalil said, “Good evening, Mr. Corey, or should I say good morning?”

“Say whatever you want.”

“Did I wake you?”

“That’s okay. I had to get up to answer the phone, anyway.”

There was a silence while he tried to figure out my sense of humor. I wasn’t sure why he was calling me, but when someone calls you who has nothing to offer, that means they want something. I said to him, “So, what have you been up to since we last spoke?”

“I have been traveling. And yourself?”

“Me, too.” I added, “Funny coincidence, I was just talking about you.”

“I’m sure you speak of little else these days.”

Asshole
. “Hey, I’ve got a life. How about you?”

He didn’t seem to understand the idiom and replied, “Of course, I am alive. Very much alive.”

“Right. So, what can I do for you?”

“Where are you, Mr. Corey?”

“I’m in New York.”

“Yes? I think I am calling a cell phone.”

“Indeed you are. The cell phone is in New York, and I’m with it. Where are
you?”

“In Libya.”

“No kidding? You’re coming across like you were down the block.”

“Perhaps I
am
. Perhaps I am in New York.”

“Perhaps you are. Look out the window and try to figure out where you are. You see camels, or yellow cabs?”

“Mr. Corey, I don’t like your sense of humor, and it makes no difference where either of us is located, since we are both lying.”

“Exactly. So, what is the purpose of this phone call? What do you need?”

“Do you think I only call you for favors? I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Well, that’s really sweet of you. Have you been dreaming about me again?” I looked at Kate, who was keeping her eyes on the dark road. There was some ground fog now, and it was spooky out there. She glanced at me and winked.

Finally, Khalil replied, “In fact, I
have
been dreaming about you.”

“Good one?”

“I dreamed that we met in a dark place, and that I emerged into the light, alone, covered with your blood.”

“Really? What do you think that means?”

“You know what it means.”

“Do you ever dream about
women?
You know, and wake up with a serious woody?”

Kate poked me in the ribs.

Khalil didn’t answer my question, but changed the subject and said, “Actually, there may be a few things you can do for me.”

“I knew it.”

“First, please tell Mr. Wiggins that even if it takes another fifteen years, I will kill him.”

“Come on, Asad. Isn’t it time to forgive and get on—”

“Shut up.”

My goodness.

“Second, Mr. Corey, the same goes for you and for Miss Mayfield.”

I glanced at Kate, but she didn’t seem to be able to hear Khalil’s end of the conversation. I said to my disturbed caller, “You know, Asad, you can’t solve all your problems with violence.”

“Of course I can.”

“He who lives by the sword shall die—”

“He who has the fastest sword will go on living. There is a poem in my language that I will try to translate for you. It is about a solitary and fearsome warrior, mounted on—”

“Hey, I know that one! My Arabic is a little rusty, but here’s how it goes in English—” I cleared my throat and recited, “‘Terrible he rode alone with his Yemen sword for aid; ornament it carried none but the notches on the blade.’ How’s that?”

There was a long silence, then Khalil asked me, “Where did you learn that?”

“Bible study? No, let me think. An Arab friend.” I added, to piss him off, “I have lots of Arab friends who work with me. They’re working hard to find
you
.”

Mr. Khalil thought about that and informed me, “They will all go to hell.”

“And where are you going, pal?”

“Paradise.”

“You’re already in California.”

“I am in Libya. I have completed my Jihad.”

“Well, if you’re in Libya, I’m not interested in this conversation, and we’re running up the phone bill, so—”

“I will tell
you
when the conversation is ended.”

“Then get to the point.” Actually, I thought I knew what he wanted. More interestingly, during the silence, I heard a bird chirping somewhere, leading me to believe that Asad Khalil was not indoors, unless he owned a canary. I mean, I’m not good at bird calls, but I know what a bird sounds like, and this bird sounded like one of the nightbirds I’d heard in Bel Air. I was pretty sure this guy was still somewhere in the area, birds or no birds.

Anyway, Asad got down to the real purpose of his call and asked me, “What did you say to me when we last spoke?”

“I think I called you a camel-fucker. But I want to take that back because it’s a racial slur, and as a Federal employee and an American, I—”

“About my mother and father.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, well, the FBI—actually the CIA and their overseas friends—have some really reliable information that your mom was ... how can I put this? Sort of like very good friends with Mr. Gadhafi. You know? Hey, we’re men—right? We understand these things. Okay, so it’s your mom, and maybe this is hard to hear, but she has needs and wants. Right? And you know ... it gets kind of lonely with Pop out of town a lot ... hey, you still there?”

“Go on.”

“Right.” I glanced at Kate, who was giving me a thumbs-up. I continued, “So look, Asad, I’m not being judgmental. Maybe Mom and Moammar didn’t get together until
after
your father—oh, that’s the other thing—your father. Are you sure you really, really want to hear this?”

“Go on.”

“Okay. Well, the CIA again—they’re a very smart bunch and they know stuff you wouldn’t believe. I have this really good CIA friend, Ted, and Ted told me that your father—Karim was his name. Right? Anyway, you know what happened in Paris. But I guess what you don’t know is that it wasn’t the Israelis who whacked him—murdered him. In fact, Asad, it was ... well, why dig up the past? Shit happens. You know? And I know how you are about holding a grudge, so why do you want to get yourself worked up again? Forget it.”

There was a long silence, then he said, “Go on.”

“Are you sure? I mean, you know how people are. They say, ‘Go ahead. Tell me. I won’t be mad at you.’ Then, when you tell them bad news, they hate you. I don’t want you to hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“But you want to kill me.”

“Yes, but I don’t hate you. You have done nothing to me.”

“Of course I have. I fucked up your plans to whack Wiggins. Can’t I get a little credit? Et tu, Brute?”

“Excuse me?”

“Latin. So, it’s okay if you hate me, but why should I rub this in? I mean, what’s in it for me to tell you about your dad?”

He mulled that over and replied, “If you tell me what you know, you have my word that I will not harm you or Miss Mayfield.”

“And Wiggins.”

“I will make no such promise. He is the walking dead.”

“Well, okay. Better half a pita than none. So, where was I ... ? Oh, the Paris thing. Yeah, I don’t want to speculate or sow seeds of doubt and distrust, but you have to ask yourself the question that all homicide cops ask themselves about a murder. The question is, Cui bono? That’s Latin again. Not Italian. You speak Italian—right? Anyway, cui bono? Who gains? Who would gain from your father’s death?”

“The Israelis, obviously.”

“Come on, Asad. You’re smarter than that. How many Libyan Army captains do the Israelis kill on the streets of Paris? The Israelis need a reason to whack someone. What did your father do to them? Tell me if you know.”

I heard him clear his throat, then he replied, “He was an anti-Zionist.”

“Like, who in Libya isn’t? Come on, pal. Here’s the sad truth. My CIA friends are positive that it was
not
the Israelis who killed Dad. In fact, the murder, according to Libyan defectors, was ordered by Mr. Moammar Gadhafi himself. Sorry.”

He said nothing.

I went on, “That’s the way it was. Was it a political difference between Dad and Moammar? Was it that somebody in Tripoli had it in for your father? Or was it because of Mom? Who knows? You tell me.”

Silence.

“You still there? Asad?”

Asad Khalil said to me, “You are a filthy liar, and it will give me great pleasure to cut out your tongue before I slice your throat.”

“See? I
knew
you’d be pissed. Try to do a favor and— Hello? Asad? Hello?”

I hit the End button and put the phone down on the seat between Kate and me. I took a deep breath.

We rode in silence awhile, then I gave Kate the gist of Khalil’s end of the conversation, even telling her that he said he’d kill her. I concluded, “I don’t think he likes us.”