The Lion's Game (92 page)

Kate reached into one of her jacket pockets and said, “I’ll call the Sea Scape Motel and advise them of our situation so they can alert the Secret Service here and ...”

She kept searching through her pockets, then said, “I can’t find my cell phone.”

Uh-oh.

We both felt around on the ground. Kate reached too far to her left side, and the ground exploded inches from her hand. She pulled her hand in, like she’d touched a hot stove, and stared at the back of it. She said, “My God, I
felt
that round brush my knuckles ... but ... I’m not actually hit ... I felt the heat or something ...”

“The man can
shoot
. Meanwhile, where’s the cell phone?”

She rummaged around her jacket and pants pockets again and announced, “It must have fallen out of my pocket when we were rolling. Damn it.”

We both stared out at the brush-covered slope in front of us, but there was no way to know where the phone was, and for sure neither of us was going to go searching for it.

So, we sat there, listening for the sound of someone moving toward us. In a way, I hoped the bastard
was
coming for us because I knew he’d have to come around the boulder or over the top of it, and we’d hear him. I wanted at least one shot at him. But if he circled wide, we wouldn’t see or hear him, and he had the rifle with the scope. I suddenly felt less safe on this side of the boulder, knowing that Khalil could be circling around into the bushes we’d just come from.

She said, “Sorry about the phone.”

“Not your fault. I guess I should get a cell phone.”

“Not a bad idea. I’ll buy one for you.”

A helicopter flew by, about a quarter mile away, but he didn’t see us, or sense us—or Khalil—with whatever sensing device he had. Neither did Khalil fire at him, which would have been an easy shot. This led me to believe that Asad Khalil was gone—or, Mr. Khalil was holding his fire because he really wanted
me
. Now there’s an upsetting thought.

Anyway, I’d had enough of this bullshit. I got out of my jacket, and before Kate could stop me, I stood quickly and waved the jacket to my side, like a matador messing around with the bull’s horns. Unlike a matador, however, I got rid of the jacket real quick as I ducked behind the boulder, just in time to hear the little buzz that ventilated the jacket and snapped some branches off to our side.

Before Kate could yell at me, I said, “I think he’s still in the treeline.”

“And how do you know that?”

“The shot came from that direction. I could tell by the buzzing and the impact, and there was a half-second delay, like he was still a hundred yards away.”

“Are you making this up?”

“Sort of.”

Well, back to the game of nerves. Just when I thought Khalil was winning, Mr. Steely Assassin became frustrated and started shooting again. The prick was amusing himself by firing chip shots across the top of the boulder and shards of stone were spraying into the air, and falling down on us.

He fired a full magazine, then reloaded and began firing on either side of the boulder so that the strike of the rounds was just inches from our tucked-up legs. I watched, fascinated, as the pebbly earth exploded into little craters.

I said to Kate, “This guy is an asshole.”

She didn’t reply, mesmerized by the flying dirt around us.

Khalil then shifted his aim closer to the sides of the boulder, and the guy was good, just skimming the sides inches from our shoulders. The boulder was getting a little smaller. I said to Kate, “Where’d he learn to shoot like that?”

She replied, “If I had a rifle, I’d show
him
how to shoot.” She added, “If I’d had a vest, I wouldn’t be bleeding.”

“Remember that for next time.” I took her hand and squeezed it. “How you doing?”

“Okay ... it’s hurting like hell now.”

“Hang in there. He’ll get tired of playing with his gun.”

She asked me, “How are
you?”

“I have a new wound to show the girls.”

“How’d you like another one?”

I squeezed her hand again and said, stupidly, “His and her wounds.”

“That’s not even funny. This fucking thing is throbbing.”

I untied her jacket, put my hand around her back, and gently felt the exit wound.

She let out a cry of pain.

I said, “It’s starting to clot. Try not to move and break the clot. Keep holding the entry wound with the handkerchief.”

“I know, I know, I know. God, this hurts.”

“I know.” Been there, done that. I retied the jacket around her waist.

Khalil had another idea and started firing at the smaller rocks around us, causing ricochets, like a pool player trying to make a shot from behind the eight ball. The rocks were sandstone, and most of them shattered, but now and then Khalil got his ricochet, and one of the rounds actually struck the boulder above my head. I said to Kate, “Tuck your head and face between your legs.” I added, “Persistent little bastard, isn’t he?”

She tucked her head between her knees and said, “He really doesn’t like you, John. You’ve inspired him to new levels of creativity.”

“I do that to people.”

All of a sudden, I felt a sharp pain in my right thigh, and I realized he’d gotten me with a ricochet. “Damn!”

“What’s the matter?”

I felt where the hot round had hit me and discovered a tear in my pants and a rip in my flesh. I felt around the ground near my thigh and found the still-warm distorted bullet, which I held up. “Seven point six-two millimeter, steel jacketed, military round, probably from an M-14 modified as a sniper rifle with interchangeable night and day scopes, plus silencer and flash suppressor. Just like the one Gene had.”

“Who gives a shit?”

“Just making conversation.” I added, “Also, just like the one Ted had.”

We let that sit awhile, putting some silly thoughts out of our minds. I added, “Of course, the M-14 is a fairly common Army surplus rifle, and I didn’t mean to suggest anything by mentioning that Ted happened to have one.”

Finally, Kate said, “He could have killed us at the VORTAC station.”

To continue the paranoid moment, I pointed out, “He wouldn’t whack us so close to where Gene dropped us off to meet him.”

She didn’t reply.

Of course, I didn’t really think it was Ted who was trying to kill us. Ted wouldn’t do that. Ted wanted to come to our wedding. Right? But you never know. I put the spent bullet in my pocket.

We sat there for a quiet five minutes, and I figured—whoever he was—he was gone, but I had no intention of finding out for sure.

I could hear helicopters circling in the distance and hoped that eventually one of them would see us.

Despite the pain in my pelvis, I was starting to drift off. I was totally exhausted and also dehydrated, so I thought I was getting delirious when I heard a phone ring. I opened my eyes. “What the hell ... ?”

Kate and I stared down the slope to where the phone was ringing. I still couldn’t see it, but I had a general idea of where it was. I could tell now that it wasn’t more than twenty feet away. It was actually directly in front of us, and if I ran out to it, I’d be blocked from Khalil’s line of sight by the boulder. Maybe.

Before I could decide if I wanted to risk it, the phone stopped ringing. I said, “If we can get that phone, we can call for help.”

Kate replied, “If we go out to get that phone, we won’t need any help. We’ll be dead.”

“Right.”

We kept staring at the spot where the phone had been ringing. It began ringing again.

It’s a fact that a sniper can’t continually stare through a telescopic lens without getting eye and arm fatigue, so he has to take short breaks. Maybe Khalil was on a break. In fact, maybe Khalil was calling us. He can’t shoot and talk at the same time. Right?

Before I thought about it too much longer, I sprang forward in a crouch, covered the twenty feet in two seconds, located the ringing phone, scooped it up, spun around, and charged back toward the boulder, keeping the boulder between me and Khalil’s line of fire. Before I reached the boulder, I pitched the ringing phone to Kate, who caught it.

I hit the boulder, spun, and fell into a sitting position, wondering why I was still alive. I took a few deep breaths.

Kate had the phone to her ear and was listening. She said into the phone, “Fuck you.” She listened again and said, “Don’t tell me how a woman should talk. Fuck you.”

I had the feeling that wasn’t Jack Koenig.

She put the phone to her chest and said to me, “Are you very brave, or very stupid? How could you do that without consulting me? Would you rather be dead than married? Is that it?”

“Excuse me, who’s on the phone?”

Kate handed the phone to me. “Khalil wants to say good-bye.”

We looked at each other, embarrassed, I think, by our brief suspicions that it was Ted Nash, our compatriot, who had been trying to kill us. I had to get out of this business.

I said to her, “You ought to get your number changed.” I put the phone to my ear and said, “Corey.”

Asad Khalil said to me, “You’re a very lucky man.”

“God is looking after me.”

“He must be. I don’t often miss.”

“We all have off days, Asad. Go home and practice.”

“I admire your courage and your good humor in the face of death.”

“Thanks so much. Hey, why don’t you get out of that tree, put down your rifle, and come across that field with your hands up? I’ll see that you get treated fairly by the authorities.”

He laughed and said, “I am not in the tree. I am on my way home. I just wanted to say good-bye and to remind you that I will be back.”

“Looking forward to a rematch.”

“Fuck you.”

“A religious man shouldn’t talk like that.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, fuck
you
, Asad, and fuck the camel you rode up on.”

“I will kill you and kill that whore you are with, if it takes me all of my life.”

I’d obviously gotten him angry again, so to direct his anger toward more constructive goals, I reminded him, “Don’t forget to first get things straightened out with Uncle Moammar. Also, it was a guy named Habib Nadir who killed your father in Paris, on orders of Moammar. You know this guy?”

There was no reply, and neither did I expect one. The phone went dead, and I handed it back to Kate. “He and Ted would like each other.”

So, we sat there, not quite trusting Khalil to be hot-footing it through the mountains, especially after that last conversation. Maybe I needed to take a Dale Carnegie course.

Kate called the Sea Scape Motel and got Kim Rhee on the phone. She explained our situation and present position sitting behind a boulder, and Kim said she’d get some Secret Service people to us. Kate added, “Tell them to be careful. I’m not sure if Khalil is actually gone.”

She signed off and said to me, “You think he’s gone?”

“I think so. The Lion knows when to run and when to attack.”

“Right.”

To lighten the moment, I asked her, “What’s the difference between an Arab terrorist and a woman with PMS?”

“Tell me.”

“You can reason with an Arab terrorist.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Okay, then what’s the definition of a moderate Arab?”

“What?”

“A guy who ran out of ammunition.”

“
That’s
funny.”

The sun got warm and burned off the remaining fog. We held hands, waiting for a chopper to get to us, or a vehicle or foot patrol to come by.

Kate said, as if to herself, “This was a taste of things to come.”

Indeed it was. And Asad Khalil, or the next guy like him, would be back with some new grudge, and we’d send a cruise missile into somebody’s house in retaliation, and round and round it goes. I said to Kate, “You want to get out of this business?”

“No. Do you?”

“Only if you do.”

“I like it,” she said.

“Whatever you like, I like.”

“I like California.”

“I like New York.”

“How about Minnesota?”

“Is that a city or a state?”

Eventually, a helicopter spotted us, and after determining that we weren’t crazed Arab terrorists, it landed, and we were carried on board.

They flew us to a helipad at the Santa Barbara County Hospital, and we were given adjoining rooms with not much of a view.

A lot of our new friends from the Ventura FBI office stopped by to say hello: Cindy, Chuck, Kim, Tom, Scott, Edie, Roger, and Juan. Everyone told us how well we looked. I figure if I keep getting shot once a year, I’ll look terrific by the time I’m fifty.

My phone rang constantly, as you can imagine—Jack Koenig, Captain Stein, my ex-partner, Dom Fanelli, my ex-wife, Robin, family, friends, past and present colleagues, and on and on. Everyone seemed very concerned about my condition, of course, and always asked first how I was doing, and waited patiently while I said I was fine, before they got into the important stuff about what happened.

Hospital patients get away with a lot of crap, as I recalled from my last stay. Therefore, depending on who was calling, I had five standard lines: I’m on painkillers and can’t concentrate; It’s time for my sponge bath; This line is not secure; I have a thermometer up my ass; My mental health worker doesn’t want me to dwell on the incident.

Obviously, you have to use the appropriate line for different people. Telling Jack Koenig, for instance, that I had a thermometer up my ass ... well, point made.

On Day Two, Beth Penrose called. I didn’t think any of the standard lines were appropriate for that conversation, so we had The Talk. End of story. She wished me well, and she meant it. I wished her well, and I meant it.

A few people from the Los Angeles office also stopped in to see how Kate was doing, and a few of them even looked in on me, including Douglas Pindick, who turned off my intravenous. Just kidding.