The Lion's Game (93 page)

Another visitor was Gene Barlet of the Secret Service. He invited Kate and me back to the Reagan ranch for a tour when we were up to it. He said, “I’ll show you the place where you were shot. You can have chips from the rock. Take a few photographs.”

I assured him I had no interest in memorializing the event, but Kate accepted his invitation.

Anyway, I learned from various and sundry people that Asad Khalil seemed to have disappeared, which did not surprise me. There were two possibilities regarding Mr. Khalil’s disappearance—one, he’d made it back to Tripoli, two, the CIA had him and were turning him around, trying to convince the Lion that certain Libyans tasted better than Americans.

On that subject, I still didn’t know if Ted and company actually let Asad Khalil go through with his mission of killing those pilots in order to make Khalil feel more fulfilled, and therefore happy and more receptive to the idea of whacking Uncle Moammar and friends. Also, I really wondered where the Libyans had
gotten
the names of those pilots. I mean, that’s
really
an
X-Files
conspiracy theory, and it was so far out, I didn’t waste too much time on it, or lose too much sleep over it. Still, it bothered me.

As for Ted, I wondered why he hadn’t come to pay us a visit, but I figured he had his hands full juggling lies, juking and jiving through the halls of Langley.

On Day Three of our hospital stay, four gentlemen arrived from Washington, representatives they said of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, though one of the guys smelled like CIA. Kate and I were well enough to meet them in a private visitors room. They took statements from us, of course, because that’s what they do. They love to take statements, but rarely make any statements of their own.

They did say, however, that Asad Khalil was still not in FBI custody, which may have been technically true. I mentioned to these gentlemen that Mr. Khalil swore to kill Kate and me if it took the rest of his life.

They told Kate and me not to be overly concerned, don’t talk to strangers, and be home before the streetlights came on, or something like that. We made a tentative appointment to meet in Washington when we felt up to it. Happily, no one mentioned a press conference.

Related to that subject, we were reminded that we’d signed various oaths, pledges, and so forth, limiting our rights to make public statements, and swearing to safeguard all information that related to national security. In other words, don’t speak to the press or we’ll chew your asses up so bad, those bullet wounds on your butts will look like little zits by comparison.

This wasn’t exactly a threat because the government does not threaten its citizens, but it was a fair warning.

I reminded my colleagues that Kate and I were heroes, but no one seemed to know anything about that. I then announced to the four gentlemen that it was time for my enema, and they left.

On the subject of the press again, the attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan was reported in all the news media, but it was played down, and the official statement from Washington was, “The former President’s life was never in danger.” No mention was made of Asad Khalil—the lone individual involved was unknown—and no one seemed to get the connection between the dead pilots and the assassination attempt. That would change, of course, but as Alan Parker would say, “A third today, a third tomorrow, and the rest when reporters start squeezing our nuts.”

On Day Four of our stay in Santa Barbara County Hospital, Mr. Edward Harris, CIA colleague of Ted Nash, showed up all by himself, and we received him in the private visitors room. He, too, reminded us not to speak to the press, and suggested that we’d had a bad shock, loss of blood, and all that, and therefore our memories weren’t to be trusted.

Kate and I had previously discussed this, and we assured Mr. Harris that we couldn’t even remember what we had for lunch. I also said to him, “I don’t even know why I’m in the hospital. The last thing I remember is driving to Kennedy Airport to pick up a defector.”

Edward looked a bit skeptical, and he said, “Don’t overdo it.”

I informed Mr. Harris, “I won that twenty-dollar bet from you. And ten from Ted.”

He gave me a sort of funny look, which seemed inappropriate. I think it had to do with the mention of Ted’s name.

I should say at this point that nearly everyone who visited us acted as though they had some information that we didn’t have, but that we could have it if we asked. So I asked Edward, “Where’s Ted?”

Edward let a few seconds pass, then informed us, “Ted Nash is dead.”

I wasn’t totally surprised, but I was shocked nonetheless.

Kate was stunned, too, and asked, “How?”

Edward replied, “He was discovered, after you were found, on the Reagan ranch. He had a bullet wound through his forehead and died instantly.” Edward added, “We recovered the bullet and ballistics prove conclusively that it was from the same rifle that Asad Khalil used to fire at you.”

Kate and I sat there, not knowing what to say.

I did feel badly, but if Ted were in the room, I’d tell him the obvious—When you play with fire, you get burned. When you play with lions, you get eaten.

Kate and I passed on our condolences, me wondering why Ted’s death had not yet made the news.

Edward suggested, as Ted had done, that we might be happy working for the Central Intelligence Agency.

I didn’t think this kind of happiness was at all possible, but when you’re dealing with slick, you have to be slicker. I said to Edward, “We can talk. Ted would have liked that.”

Again, I detected a bit of skepticism from Edward, but he said, “The pay is better. You can pick any foreign duty station and be guaranteed a five-year posting. Together. Paris, London, Rome, your pick.”

This sounded a little like a bribe, which is a whole lot better than a threat. Point was, we knew too much, and they knew we knew too much. I told Edward, “I’ve always wanted to live in Lithuania. Kate and I will talk it over.”

Edward wasn’t used to being jerked around, and he got real cool and left.

Kate reminded me, “You shouldn’t smart-ass those people.”

“I don’t often get the opportunity.”

She sat silently a moment, then said, “Poor Ted.”

I wondered if he was really dead, so I couldn’t work through the grieving process with any enthusiasm. I said to Kate, “Invite him to the wedding anyway. You never know.”

By Day Five in the hospital, I figured if I stayed there any longer, I’d never recover physically or mentally, so I checked myself out, which made my government health insurance rep happy. In fact, I could have left after Day Two, considering my fairly minor hip and thigh wounds, but the Feds had wanted me to stay, and so did Kate, whose injury needed more time to heal.

I said to Kate, “Ventura Inn Beach Resort. See you there.” And off I went, with a bottle of antibiotics and some really neat painkillers.

Someone had actually sent my clothes out for cleaning, and the suit had come back cleaned and pressed, with the two bullet holes sort of mended or crocheted or something. The bloodstains were still faintly visible on the suit, and on my blue shirt and tie, though my shorts and socks were nice and fresh. A hospital van took me to Ventura.

I felt like a vagrant, checking into the Ventura Inn, without luggage, not to mention stained clothes, and spaced out on painkillers. But Mr. American Express soon put things right, and I got California duds, swam in the ocean, watched
X-Files
reruns, and spoke to Kate twice a day on the phone.

Kate joined me a few days later, and we took some medical leave at the Ventura Inn, and I worked on my tan and learned to eat avocados.

Anyway, Kate had this teensy bikini, and she soon realized that scars don’t tan. Guys think scars are badges of honor. Women don’t. But I kissed the boo-boo every night, and she became less self-conscious. In fact, she started showing off the entry and exit wounds to some cabana boys, who thought a bullet wound was really cool.

Kate, between cabana boys and war stories, tried to teach me how to surf, but I think you have to have capped teeth and bleached hair to do it right.

So, we got to know each other better in the two-week trial honeymoon that we spent in Ventura, and by silent mutual consent, we realized we were made for one another. For instance, Kate assured me she loved watching football games on TV, liked sleeping with the window open in the winter, preferred Irish pubs instead of fancy restaurants, hated expensive clothes and jewelry, and would never change her hairstyle. I believed every word, of course. I promised to stay the same. That was easy.

All good things must come to an end, and in mid-May, we returned to New York and our jobs at 26 Federal Plaza.

There was a little office party for us, as is the custom, and dopey speeches were made, toasts were proposed to our dedication to the job, to our full recovery, and, of course, to our engagement and long, happy lives together. Everyone loves a love story. It was the longest night of my life.

To make the evening more fun, Jack pulled me aside and said, “I used your thirty bucks, and also Ted’s and Edward’s bets toward the caterer’s bill. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

Right. And Ted would have wanted it that way.

All things considered, I’d rather be back in Homicide North, but that wasn’t going to happen. Captain Stein and Jack Koenig assured me that I had a brilliant future ahead of me on the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, despite a stack of formal complaints lodged against me by various individuals and organizations.

Upon our return to duty, Kate announced that she was rethinking things—not about the marriage, but about the engagement ring. She put me to work on something called The Invitation List. Also, I found Minnesota on a map. It’s a whole state. I faxed copies of the map to my buds on the NYPD to show them.

A few days after our return, we made the mandatory trip to the J. Edgar Hoover Building and spent three days with these nice people from Counterterrorism, who listened to our whole story, then repeated it to us, in a slightly different form. We all got our stories straight, and Kate and I signed affidavits, statements, transcripts, and stuff until everyone was happy.

I suppose we caved in a little, but we got a major promise from them that might put things right some day.

On the fourth day of our Washington trip, we were taken to CIA Headquarters at Langley, Virginia, where we met Edward Harris and others. It wasn’t a long visit, and we were in the company of four FBI people, who did most of the talking for us. I wish these people could just learn to get along.

The only interesting thing about this Langley visit was our meeting with an extraordinary man. He was an ex-KGB guy, and his name was Boris, the same Boris that Ted had mentioned to us at the VORTAC.

There seemed to be no purpose to the meeting, other than the fact that Boris wanted to meet us. But in the hour that we spoke, I got the feeling that this guy had seen and done more in his life than all of us in that room combined.

Boris was a big dude, chain-smoked Marlboros, and was overly nice to my fiancée.

He talked a little about his KGB days, then gave us a few tidbits about his second career with Libyan Intelligence. He mentioned that he’d given Khalil a few tips about his trip to America. Boris was curious about how we got on to Asad Khalil and all that.

I’m not in the habit of spilling a lot of information to foreign intelligence officers, but the guy played one-for-one with us, and if Kate or I answered his question, he’d answer ours. I could have spoken to this guy for days, but we had other people in the room, and once in a while, they’d tell one of us not to reply, or to change the subject. What happened to freedom of speech?

Anyway, we all had a little nip of vodka together, and inhaled secondhand smoke.

One of the CIA boys announced that it was time to leave, and we all stood. I said to Boris, “We should meet again.”

He shrugged and made a motion toward his CIA friends.

We shook hands, and Boris said to Kate and me, “That man is a perfect killing machine, and what he doesn’t kill today, he will kill tomorrow.”

“He’s just a man,” I replied.

“Sometimes I wonder.” He added, “In any case, I congratulate you both on your survival. Don’t waste any of your days.”

I was sure this was just another Russian expression and had nothing to do with the subject of Asad Khalil. Right?

Kate and I returned to New York, and neither of us mentioned Boris again. But I’d really like to have a whole bottle of vodka with that guy some day. Maybe I’d issue him a subpoena. Maybe that wasn’t a good idea.

The weeks passed, and still no word from Asad Khalil, and no happy news out of Libya concerning Mr. Gadhafi’s sudden demise.

Kate never got her cell phone number changed, and I still have the same direct dial at 26 Federal Plaza, and we’re waiting for a call from Mr. Khalil.

Better than that, Stein and Koenig—as part of our deal with the folks in Washington—instructed us to form a special team consisting of me, Kate, Gabe, George Foster, and a few other people whose sole mission is to find and apprehend Mr. Asad Khalil. I also put in a request to the NYPD to transfer my old partner, Dom Fanelli, to the ATTF. He’s fighting it, but I’m an important person now, and I’ll have Dom in my clutches soon. I mean, he’s responsible for me being in the ATTF, and one good screwing deserves another. It’ll be like old times.

There will be no CIA people on this new team, which improves our odds a lot.

This special team is probably the only thing that kept me on this screwed-up job. I mean, I take that guy’s threat seriously, and it’s a very simple matter of kill or be killed. None of us on the team intend to take Asad Khalil alive, and Asad Khalil himself does not intend to be taken alive, so it works out well for everyone.