The Lion jc-5

by Nelson DeMille

  That didn't sound like the Asad Khalil that I knew. I mean, you really don't want your victims doing the zombie walk in the middle of the street while you're trying to put some distance between you and them.

  My own brain, which works well enough, retrieved a piece of trivia-Leon Trotsky, an old Bolshevik who had fallen out of favor with his Commie buddies, was murdered in Mexico City by a guy working for the predecessors of the KGB. The weapon used was an ice pick-and Trotsky had lingered for days before dying. So if I was seeing Boris's training here, you'd think Boris would have remembered to tell Khalil, "We love that ice pick, Asad, but you gotta give them two or three pokes."

  I made a mental note to discuss this with Boris if I got the chance. Or maybe Khalil.

  Walsh continued with his crime scene briefing. "The police found no cell phone on the driver's body or in his taxi. We then attempted to retrieve the murdered man's cell phone records, and his house phone records, but we discovered that he had no house phone, and if he had a cell phone-which he undoubtedly did-it was either not in his name, or it was the paid-minutes type and no records exist." He concluded, "Dead end."

  Poor choice of words, perhaps, but not surprising. As I've discovered, most Middle Eastern immigrants come from places where it's not a good idea to create records of your existence-and that mentality had carried over to America, which made my job a little more difficult.

  Walsh continued, "We're making the assumption, of course, that it was Khalil who murdered this taxi driver… though it could be a coincidence."

  I offered my unsolicited opinion and said, "Khalil murdered the taxi driver." I added, "That's why you have a BOLO out on Khalil and why his photo is in every police car in the city."

  Neither Walsh nor Paresi asked me how I knew that, though by now they had concluded that John Corey was still plugged into the Blue Network. Well, I was, but with each year that passed since my disability retirement, my NYPD sources were fewer, and by now I'd called in most of the favors owed to me. Still, I could flash my shield and talk to a cop on the beat.

  Walsh concluded, "NYPD Homicide is investigating this murder and will keep us informed."

  Walsh filled us in on a few more odds and ends, including the not-surprising discovery that Global Entertainment in Lichtenstein and Hydra Shipping in Athens were sham corporations. INTERPOL and the national police of both countries were investigating.

  In police work, intelligence work, and counterterrorism work, we always say, "It's important to know who fired the bullet, but it's more important to know who paid for it."

  Indeed. And when you know that, you can guess at the bigger picture.

  Who was backing Asad Khalil? And why? He could not have pulled all this off by himself. My knowledge of geopolitics is limited, but I did know that Libya and its weird president, Colonel Muammar Khadafi, were being quiet since we bombed the shit out of them in 1986. And since 9/11, they'd gotten even quieter. So they wouldn't risk backing their former psychotic terrorist-there was nothing in it for them except more bombs.

  The next usual suspect was Al Qaeda, but I didn't see their fingerprints on this-unless there was something in it for them. Which brought me to quid pro quo.

  It would appear that a terrorist organization with some resources had provided Asad Khalil with funds, sham corporations, passports, and intel about his intended victims-including me and Kate. But Asad Khalil's mission was his mission and not very large in scale or significant in terms of what it would accomplish in the war against the U.S. For sure it was insignificant when compared to 9/11. I mean, whacking Mr. and Mrs. Corey was not high on Al Qaeda's agenda.

  Therefore, Khalil had to return the favor; he had to take out a big target for his sponsors-a building or monument, or maybe an important person or persons.

  I was thinking about all this while Walsh was going on about this and that, speaking mostly to George Foster now. I was waiting for Walsh to get to the question of who might be behind Asad Khalil, and the possibility of a major attack, using a weapon of mass destruction. But that didn't seem to be on Walsh's agenda memo. Maybe later.

  Walsh finished with George, who apparently had just been made the case agent in my mental absence. I had no real problem with that, but I was a little concerned about my future status on this case. Tom, nice tie.

  Walsh said, "We have a piece of evidence I'd like you all to see." He took a remote control from the table and clicked on the television in the corner. In a few seconds, we were watching a bunch of assholes jumping out of an aircraft.

  The first scene was obviously taken by a skydiver as he was free-falling, and it was a bit jumpy, as you can imagine. Nevertheless, I recognized the twenty or so idiots falling through space with their bodies in the Superman position, trying to join up to form a bucky ball or something. I thought I saw Craig flapping his arms and legs like a wounded duck.

  Walsh was staring at the screen, and he asked me, "You do that?"

  I replied, "Kate and I love it." I added, "You should try it." I'll pack your chute.

  Walsh fast forwarded. This shot was taken from the ground with a telephoto lens, and I could clearly see a few colored chutes against the blue sky, then Walsh put it into slow motion, and I could now see Kate free-falling with Khalil hooked up to her. Then I saw myself free-falling toward Kate and Khalil, and then Kate's chute opened, and then mine opened.

  The room was very silent, but you could hear people on the ground talking, then the distinct voice of a man saying, "Look!"

  Walsh froze the picture and said to me, "You don't have to watch this."

  I didn't reply and he continued in slow motion.

  As the scene unfolded, Walsh asked me to provide a commentary, but I said, "I'll put it in my report."

  I saw myself pulling my gun and popping off two rounds at Khalil, but the action was so far away that no one but me knew what I'd done.

  Meanwhile, the voices on the ground got louder, and they sounded more excited as they realized something was wrong.

  Even in slow motion and with the telephoto lens, it was difficult for the people on the ground, or in this room, to see or comprehend what was happening at that altitude. But I knew the moment when Khalil cut Kate's throat, and I did bring that to everyone's attention.

  Then you could see Khalil going into free fall, and I saw his chute opening, and I could see now that he'd steered himself toward the woods.

  Khalil was out of the frame, and I looked back at where the cameraman had centered his shot, which was me steering toward Kate. Then our chutes collided and collapsed, and there was a lot of shouting on the ground and someone screamed.

  Next you could see my collapsed chute sailing away after I jettisoned it, then Kate's chute, too, sailed off when I released it. And then there we were in free fall again.

  It would appear to the uninitiated that Kate and I were falling to our deaths, but the skydivers on the ground understood that a collapsed main chute was actually worse than no chute.

  Paresi asked me, "What the hell is happening?"

  I explained, "I had to get rid of our main chutes to get us on the ground quickly before she bled to death." I assured him, "Our emergency chutes will open." That's why I'm here.

  Paresi mumbled, "Jesus…"

  Kate and I were free-falling for what seemed a very long time before Kate's emergency chute popped, followed by mine. Even in slow motion I could see now how fast we were falling with the small chutes, and I unconsciously braced myself for the impact. I wouldn't want to do that again.

  I saw Kate hit the ground first, then before I hit, the cameraman must have stopped filming, because the next scene was of the ambulance racing toward where we'd landed, then a new scene of me in the distance kneeling over Kate. Then all I could see was the backs of people in jumpsuits running toward where the ambulance had stopped, and I could hear a lot of excited shouting.

  The cameraman was now moving quickly through the crowd as he filmed, and I could see brief glimpses of myself a
nd the three EMS people gathered around Kate. The cameraman seemed intent on working his way closer to where we were trying to save Kate's life, but I don't know if he got that close because Walsh shut off the TV.

  We all sat there for a few quiet seconds before Walsh said, "You did a good job."

  I didn't reply.

  Paresi said, as if to himself, "I can't believe that asshole did that."

  Walsh suggested, "Let's take a fifteen-minute break."

  I stood and walked out of the room and headed toward the elevators.

  I got on the elevator and rode down by myself. I closed my eyes and I was falling through space… falling at two hundred miles an hour, and my wife was spurting blood into the airstream, and my heart pounded in my chest.

  You bastard. You arrogant bastard.

  "You only get one chance at me, asshole. You had it, and you blew it. Payback's a bitch."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I sat at my desk and stared out over the expanse of low-walled cubicles. It was still lunch hour, quiet and empty in Fedland-very unlike an NYPD squad room at any hour of any day.

  A few desks away was where Gabe Haytham had worked, and I saw that the human resources people had already packed his desk into nice white boxes-business and personal-and I wondered if Gabe had any family to receive his personal effects.

  On the far side of the open space were the cubicles where the FBI agents worked, and I looked at Kate's desk.

  Captain Paresi appeared on the floor and walked over to my desk.

  I inquired, "Slumming?"

  He sat down in my side chair and asked me, "How you doing?"

  "Fine."

  He said to me, "I think you're experiencing post-traumatic stress."

  Apparently Walsh had come up with a good reason for me to ask for some leave time. I didn't respond.

  He assured me, "No one here"-he waved his arm to encompass the rows of empty desks-"will think any the less of you if you ask for time to be with your wife." He further assured me, "That's what a man and a husband does."

  I wasn't sure if I should take marital advice from a man who's been married three times.

  He asked me, "How did you know more about the Amir murder than I told you?"

  I replied, "I have my sources."

  He changed the subject and said, "I'll take your Khalil file."

  I took my keys out of my pocket and unlocked my file cabinet beside my desk. In the bottom drawer was a folder marked "Islamic Community Outreach Program." I pulled the folder and handed it to Paresi, who glanced at the index tab, smiled, and commented, "I hope you read these memos carefully."

  "Hey, I organize wet burqua contests at the hookah bars in Bay Ridge."

  He opened the folder, flipped through the pages, and asked me a few questions. I briefed him on the efforts of the Lion Hunter team over the past three years and concluded, "No one in the general Muslim community seems to know anything about Asad Khalil. However, the small Libyan community knows of him." I explained, "His father, Captain Karim Khalil, was a big shot in the Khadafi government, and the Khalil family was close to the Khadafi family." I further informed him, "Captain Khalil was assassinated in Paris, supposedly by Israeli agents, making him a martyr for Islam and a surefire shoo-in for paradise." I added, "Actually, it was Khadafi himself who ordered the hit."

  "Why?"

  "The CIA says that Khadafi was sexually involved with Mrs. Khalil. Asad's mommy."

  "No kidding?"

  "It's complicated, but the CIA tried to turn Asad Khalil with this info and have him whack Khadafi."

  Paresi thought about that, but did not comment.

  "That's all I can say, and all you want to know… except keep an eye on the boys at 290 Broadway."

  Paresi nodded.

  I continued, "Prior to Karim Khalil's residence in paradise, he and his family lived in a former Italian military compound in Tripoli called Al Azziziyah. This was a privileged community where the Khadafis also had a house. It was a nice, quiet neighborhood until the night of April 15, 1986, when four U.S. Air Force F-111s, part of a larger attack group, dropped eight big fuck-you bombs on the compound, killing, among others, Khadafi's adopted daughter and, as I told you, Asad Khalil's entire family-his mother, two sisters, and two brothers."

  Captain Paresi processed that, then asked, "How did that bastard survive?"

  I replied, "I don't know. But Asad Khalil would tell you he was spared by God to seek revenge, for himself, and for his Great Leader, Muammar Khadafi."

  "Right. Still pissed after all these years."

  "I would be, too."

  "So, Chip Wiggins was the last of those eight pilots."

  "He was," I replied.

  "So, time to go home."

  "Well, I would. You would. But you know, he's in town anyway, so why not whack a few more people on the way out?"

  Captain Paresi observed, "He's got a big hate eating his guts."

  "You think?"

  Paresi flipped through the folder and asked, "What's in here that I can use to find Asad Khalil?"

  I replied, "The names and contact info of people we've worked with around the world-foreign intelligence people, police agencies, INTERPOL, and informants."

  "Good. Any Khalil sightings?"

  "No. He seems to have totally disappeared for three years." I added, "The serious bad guys usually do that before they resurface for a big mission."

  Paresi nodded and said, "I guess he's been preparing for this."

  "Or he may have been fighting in Afghanistan or Iraq."

  Paresi nodded, then asked me, "How about the million-dollar reward? Any takers?"

  "No, but a few interested parties."

  "Right. That's how we find ninety percent of the assholes we're looking for. Money talks."

  "Except when people are scared shitless. Or if the guy we're looking for has become a legend. How much are we offering for Osama bin Laden?"

  "I think it's twenty million."

  "Saddam Hussein?"

  "That's twenty-five million," he replied.

  "How we doing on that?"

  "We'll see."

  Paresi and I kicked around a few thoughts, and the subject came up regarding where Khalil might be hiding out. We both agreed that he wouldn't be holed up in a Muslim neighborhood where detectives from the Task Force would be looking for him-or where someone might decide that even a measly million dollars was just too tempting.

  I said to Paresi, "As we can see, Khalil is well-funded and he has some sophisticated backing, apparently a network or cell here in New York. Whoever these people are, they probably have a few safe houses in Manhattan-apartments rented by XYZ Corporation for visiting colleagues." I speculated, "They could have an apartment in your building."

  He forced a smile and said, "Or yours."

  "Right. Or Walsh's. Point is, Asad Khalil is not sleeping on cousin Abdul's couch in Bay Ridge or having tea in a hookah bar. He's totally separated from his compatriots-until he needs something from them-then he has one or two cut-outs so he doesn't deal directly with the guy he eventually meets up with. So, for instance, when Farid in California and Amir in New York met Asad Khalil, it was their first meeting-and also their last."

  Paresi thought a moment and said, "If Khalil read that text message that Walsh sent to Kate's cell phone, then he may be spooked-which is good and bad. Good because it cuts him off from his Libyan contacts, and bad because we don't have much hope of following some Abdul who could lead us to another Abdul who could lead us to Khalil."

  "Right. But I'd rather have Khalil spooked and isolated from his contacts." I reminded him, "We know of three safe house apartment buildings in Manhattan, and you should have around-the-clock surveillance on those buildings."

  "We do."

  "But I'm fairly sure his sponsors have a never-used place for him to hang out."

  Paresi considered all that and concluded, "It won't be easy to find this guy in the usual way."

  "No. But
we will find him."

  "Right. Murderers always leave a trail and sometimes they screw up at the scene."

  "Correct. And we have the advantage of knowing at least one person he plans to kill."

  Captain Paresi seemed to recall that he might also be on Khalil's list. He said, "We'll discuss personal security in Walsh's office."

  I said to him, "Maybe we should discuss now your thought about what else Khalil is doing here to pay back his sponsors."

  He didn't reply for a few seconds, then said, "That would be a very speculative discussion." He added, "We have no information on that possibility."

  I pointed out, "We need to think about that and look for evidence of a larger terrorist attack."

  He didn't respond directly, but said, "We need to apprehend him quickly so we don't have to worry about that." He added, "When we get him, we can ask him those questions."

  Apparently Captain Paresi did not want to pursue this subject that he himself had brought up. At least he didn't want to pursue it with me.

  Vince Paresi is a good guy-an honest cop-and he, like me, had entered a different world of criminal justice than the world we once worked in. We had made our adjustments and hoped we were doing the right thing for truth, justice, and the American way. And mostly, I think, we were-except now and then when something weird came up and we were told to back off and shut up. And as proof that we were still outsiders, never once were we asked to do something that was questionable. I mean, I did things like that on my own.

  On that subject, Paresi said to me, "I sense that you may be thinking about pursuing this matter on your own time. So here's some advice-don't. But if you do, be careful, and be successful. If you're not successful, you will be brought up on criminal charges. If you're not careful, you will be dead." He added, "That's off the record."

  For the record, I didn't reply.

  He glanced at his watch and said, "We're a minute late." He stood and walked toward the elevators, carrying my folder with him.

  I waited a few minutes, then followed.