The Lion jc-5

by Nelson DeMille

  Khalil looked at his watch and said, "I have much work to do tonight. You will hear from me at approximately ten P.M., and until then, you will move this truck every half hour and you will do nothing to attract attention or arouse suspicion."

  No one replied, and Khalil continued, "If a policeman is inquisitive, and he asks you to open the trailer, you will do as you did at the tunnel. If he becomes more inquisitive, you must kill him."

  This time, each man nodded.

  Khalil addressed each of them by name and said, "Edis, Bojan, Tarik, are you all armed?"

  Each man produced an automatic pistol with a silencer, and they made certain that Khalil saw the guns.

  Khalil nodded and said, "Good. You are not being paid to buy chemicals, or to drive a truck. You are being paid to kill anyone who is a threat to this mission." He added, "I will be with you later to assist you in the killing of the guards. Then you are free to leave." In fact, they were not going to leave-they were going to die. But Khalil did not think they suspected this. And even if they did, they were stupid and arrogant enough to believe that three former soldiers with guns were safe from harm. But Khalil had killed better men than these in Afghanistan, men who were better armed and better trained than these three, whom he considered mercenaries for hire, not mujahideen who fought for Islam.

  Khalil would have liked to give his final encouragement to them in Arabic, the language of the Prophet, which was beautiful and sonorous, but he said in English, "In the name of Allah-peace be unto him-the most merciful, the most compassionate, I ask his blessing on you and your jihad." He ended with, "May God be with us this night."

  The three men hesitated, then responded in English, "Go in peace."

  Tarik opened the door, and Khalil climbed out of the cab. Bojan said in Bosnian, "Go to hell."

  The men laughed, but then Edis said, "That man frightens me."

  No one had anything to add to that.

  PART VII

  Manhattan

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Bellevue. I'm gonna miss this place.

  I'd brought Kate some clothes that she'd asked for, plus makeup and whatever so she'd look good when they wheeled her into an ambulette the next day, and good when she walked through the lobby of our building.

  Kate, however, was exhibiting the classic symptoms of short-timer anxiety-like, something is going to go wrong, I'm not really getting out of here, and so forth.

  I reminded her, "You have a gun. We'll get you out."

  She asked me, "Anything new?"

  Well, yes, our apartment building has been under round-the-clock surveillance by terrorists for maybe three weeks. But that might send her into a tailspin, so I replied, "Nope."

  She asked me, "Have you spoken to Tom or Vince?"

  "Nope."

  She moved on to family matters. "My parents were going to call you today."

  "They did. Didn't I mention that? Your father wants to know why I didn't shoot the terrorist who attacked you."

  She seemed a little embarrassed and said, "I explained that to him."

  "I'll explain it again." Or, with luck, I'll cut off the terrorist's head before our flight and bring it to him in my overnight bag. "Here he is, Mr. Mayfield. He won't be cutting any more throats. This calls for a drink."

  Kate said, "Your mother told me she was going to call you."

  "She did."

  "What did she say?"

  "Eat more fish."

  "She asked me why I'm not pregnant yet."

  "Eat more fish."

  Kate and I watched some TV-a History Channel documentary about the earth being wiped out by a meteorite, which, if it happened tonight, would put the Minnesota trip on hold for a while. God?

  Visiting hours ended at 9 P.M., and Kate and I kissed good-bye, and she said, "I'll see you tomorrow. Get here an hour early and get me checked out." She added, "This is the last time we have to say good-bye here."

  "Get some recipes before you go."

  Officer Mindy Jacobs was on duty outside Kate's door, and I said to her, "Kate's being discharged tomorrow."

  "That's good news."

  "Right. So if you're superstitious-"

  "I hear you." She assured me, "If I don't recognize a nurse, a doctor, or an orderly, I get someone I know to ID them before they get past me."

  "Good."

  I wished her a nice quiet evening and left the ward.

  My FBI driver was still Preston Tyler, who was putting in a long day. He informed me that there would be no driver on duty until morning, but he assured me, "Your surveillance and protective detail is still in place."

  "Terrific."

  There were no messages on my home phone, no e-mail, and my cell phone was silent. Maybe everyone was dead from anthrax. Nerve gas?

  I thought about calling Boris again, but then I thought about just sneaking out of here and making another unannounced visit to Svetlana. Maybe I'd spend the night on Boris's couch and see if Khalil turned up. But maybe Khalil would come for me here, and I didn't want to miss him.

  I decided to wait a half hour, and if nothing happened here, then I'd go see Boris.

  At 10:15, as I was watching another History Channel documentary about possible doomsday scenarios-earthquakes, supervol-canoes, meteors again, gamma-ray bursts, and an avalanche of fourth-class junk mail that could bury entire cities-my cell phone vibrated.

  It was a text from Paresi that said: Urgent and confidential. Meet at WTC site, PA trailer. ASAP.

  I stared at the text. Was this the break I'd been waiting for?

  I wasn't sure what Paresi meant by confidential, and he wasn't going to say in his text, "This is cop-to-cop," but that was the implication. Maybe he was finally getting his head on straight.

  I texted him: 20 minutes.

  I called down to the parking garage and was happy to get Gomp on the phone. I said, "Gomp, this is Tom Walsh."

  "Hey, Tom, how ya doin'?"

  "Swell. I need a ride down to Sixty-eighth and Lex again."

  "Sure thing."

  "I need you to meet me at the freight elevator."

  "Freight elevator?"

  "Right. Two minutes. And mum's the word." I added, "Fifty bucks."

  "Sure thing."

  I hung up and strapped on my gun belt and hip holster. On the belt, in a sheath, was Uncle Ernie's K-bar knife that I'd taken with me on all my walks in the park. I put on a blue windbreaker and left my apartment.

  As I was speed walking toward the freight elevator, I realized my vest was packed in my luggage. I don't normally wear a vest, so it's not second nature, like my gun, or my shield, or leaving the toilet seat up. I hesitated and looked at my watch. The hell with it. I got in the freight elevator, hit the garage button, and down I went.

  The elevator doors opened, and there was Gomp sitting in a nice BMW SUV. I was glad he hadn't stolen my green Jeep.

  I came around the car and said to him, "I need help with something in the elevator."

  "Sure thing."

  He got out of the BMW and moved toward the freight elevator as I jumped in the driver's seat.

  Gomp shouted, "Hey! Tom! Where you-?"

  I hit the accelerator, drove up the ramp, and turned right onto 72nd Street. I caught the green light at Third Avenue and continued on.

  I looked in the rearview mirror. There wasn't much traffic at this hour on a drizzly Sunday night, and I didn't see any headlights trying to keep up with me. That was easy.

  Subways are faster than cars in Manhattan, but the closest station to the World Trade Center has been damaged and closed since 9/11, and the other stations in the area were a five- or ten-minute walk to Liberty Street where I had to meet Paresi at the Port Authority trailer. Also, subway service to that devastated part of the city was subject to changes, meaning delays. So I'd drive. It was a nice car.

  Crosstown traffic wasn't too bad on this Sunday night, and I drove through Central Park at the 65th Street Transverse Road, then got over to the Wes
t Side Highway and headed south along the Hudson River. Traffic was moving and within fifteen minutes I was on West Street driving between the dark, devastated sites of the World Financial Center and World Trade Center.

  Pre-9/11, a footbridge spanned West Street at Liberty, and I saw the remnants of the structure and turned left. I parked the BMW near the chain-link gates and got out.

  I'd expected to see a few unmarked cars or cruisers here, but the only vehicle around was the Port Authority cruiser parked near the fence.

  I walked quickly to the gates and saw that the heavy chain and lock were in place, but there was a lot of slack in the chain and I squeezed through and walked quickly to the trailer.

  I knocked on the door, then tried the handle. The door was unlocked, so I took my creds out, opened the door, and called inside, "Federal agent! Hello? Coming in."

  I stepped up into the trailer and saw that the front area-an office with two desks, a radio, and maps-was empty. An electric coffee maker was on in the galley kitchen, but the TV on the counter was turned off.

  There was a narrow hallway that led to a bathroom and a bunk room where the PA cops could catch a few winks or whatever, and I called out, "Anybody home?" but no one answered.

  My cell phone buzzed. I looked at the text message, which was from Paresi: We're down in the pit. Where are you?

  I replied: PA trailer. 1 minute.

  I left the trailer and started down the long, wide earthen ramp that went into the deep pit.

  The excavation site was huge, covering sixteen acres, and it would have been pitch-dark except for some lights strung along the remains of the deep concrete foundation, and a dozen or so stanchion-mounted stadium lights that illuminated some of the desolate acreage.

  There were pieces of equipment scattered around-mostly earthmoving equipment and dump trucks, plus a few cranes. I also saw some construction office trailers, and one big tractor-trailer parked near the center of the site.

  About halfway down the ramp, I stopped. I looked into the pit, but I didn't see anyone. The stadium lights didn't cover the entire site, and large areas were in darkness or in shadows cast by the equipment.

  I texted Paresi: Where?

  He replied: Center, big semi.

  I looked at the tractor-trailer I'd seen, about two hundred yards away, and I saw someone pass from light to darkness.

  I continued down the hard-packed earth ramp.

  Okay, so why did Paresi want to meet here? Something to do with the big tractor-trailer? Who else was here? And where were the Port Authority cops? Down in the pit? And what's with the cell phone silence?

  The drizzle had stopped, but at the bottom of the ramp the softer earth had turned muddy, and I wished I'd changed out of my loafers. I also noticed deep, fresh tire marks made by what was probably an eighteen-wheeler that had come through not too long ago. Assuming these were made by the big semi in the center of the site, I followed the tread marks.

  I was passing in and out of darkness, and the banks of stadium lights to my front were shining in my eyes.

  I saw the tractor-trailer-CARLINO MASONRY SUPPLIES-about fifty yards ahead, but I didn't see Paresi or anyone else.

  I took another few steps and stopped. I was getting a weird feeling about this. Something in the back of my mind… the stadium lights… the shadows…

  I pulled my Glock and stuck it in my belt, then moved more slowly toward the tractor-trailer.

  My cell phone buzzed loudly in the quiet pit. I looked at the text from Paresi: I am to your left.

  I stopped beside a big dump truck and looked to my left. About ten yards away, I could see something moving in the half-light. As my eyes adjusted, I could see an object swinging from the cable of a crane… and it took me a few seconds to realize it was a person… and then I realized I was looking at the face of Vince Paresi.

  I grabbed my gun out of my belt, and as I was dropping to one knee, I heard a high-pitched scream from the top of the dump truck behind me, and a fast-moving shadow flitted across the light, then something slammed into my back with such force that I was driven face-first into the wet ground. The wind was knocked out of me, and I saw my gun lying in the mud a few feet in front of me. I lunged for it, but something hit me in the back of my head, and then a foot kicked the gun away.

  I jumped to my feet and realized I was wobbly, and as I caught my breath and tried to get my bearings, I saw someone in dark clothing standing about ten feet from me. I took a deep breath and stared at The Lion.

  Asad Khalil had a gun in his hand, but it was at his side. I could cover the distance in about two seconds, but it would take him one second to aim and fire, and he didn't have much aiming to do at this distance.

  Finally, he said, "So, we meet again."

  He wanted to talk, of course, so I replied, "Fuck you."

  He informed me, "That is the second time tonight someone has said that to me. But the last man said it in Russian."

  Well, I knew who that was, and since Khalil was standing here, I knew that Boris was not standing anywhere. And Vince… my God… I felt a rage rising inside me, but I knew I had to keep it under control.

  He said to me, "I know you are alone, and I want you to know that I, too, am alone." He said, unnecessarily, "It is just us. As you requested, and as it should be."

  I nodded.

  He nodded in return and said, "I saved you for last, Mr. Corey."

  I replied, "I saved you for myself."

  He smiled, and it wasn't a nice smile. He said, "I didn't feel a bulletproof vest when I knocked you to the ground."

  I didn't reply.

  "No matter. I am not going to shoot you in the heart." He held up his gun and said to me, "This is the gun of your deceased wife. I am looking forward to shooting off your manhood with this gun."

  He had a few more things to say before he did that, and I thought about a few moves I could make, but none of them seemed promising.

  Without moving my head, my eyes darted around at what was nearby. My gun was too far away, and there was nothing close by that I could use. I quickly scanned the top of the distant foundation walls. The observation deck was closed, and even if someone was walking by at street level, they couldn't see this far into the dark pit.

  Khalil said, "Look at me. There is no one here to help you." He let me know, "They are all dead. The two policemen in their comfortable trailer are dead. And as you can clearly see, your superior officer is close by, but he cannot help you." He held up a cell phone and said, "His final message to you is this-Asad Khalil has won."

  Again, I felt the rage and anger taking over-this psychotic piece of shit, this cold-blooded, murdering- "Did it not occur to you, Mr. Corey, that this was not as it seemed?"

  I looked at him and I thought about that. Maybe it did occur to me, way deep down inside… so deep that I just left it there because… it didn't matter to me if it was Paresi or Khalil.

  He said to me, "I have dreamed about this moment. Have you?"

  I nodded.

  He looked at me and said, "It was fated that we meet, but often we must help fate." He smiled again and said, "Both of us have helped fate tonight, and it is my fate, Mr. Corey, to cut off your face."

  I assumed he brought his own knife for that, and I said to him, "Try it. Put the gun down and try it, asshole."

  He ignored my invitation and glanced around. He said to me, "Here we are, where three thousand of your countrymen died."

  I reminded him, "There were hundreds of Muslims who died in the Towers."

  He ignored that, too, and said, "This, I think, is a good place for you to die as well." He asked me, "Did I choose well?"

  I didn't reply, and I wondered if he somehow knew that Kate and I had actually come within minutes of dying here on 9/11. But I didn't die here then, and I wasn't going to die here now.

  In fact, he said to me, "But I will not kill you unless you force me to. I will, however, shoot you in the groin, then slice off your face as I promised."
<
br />   I had no reply to that.

  He reached behind his back and produced a long, wide knife. He said, "This is what I will use, and you will be alive to feel it and to see your face being pulled from your skull."

  He was into taunting, which was part of the ritual for most pleasure killers. And they get so deep into their fantasies that they forget to be careful.

  Khalil, however, was also a trained killer, and he asked me, "Do you have another gun?"

  Well, I did, but I loaned it to Kate. I didn't reply.

  He looked at me, then said, "I didn't feel one… but…" He stuck his knife back in his belt, and then he surprised me-or maybe not-by also sticking his gun-Kate's gun-in his belt at his right side.

  He stood perfectly still, looking right at me. His legs were slightly parted and bent at the knees, and his arms were away from his sides. Did he learn that from Boris? Or too many cowboy movies?

  As though he read my mind, he said, "You are a cowboy-no? Is your gun hand faster than mine? Please. Reach for your gun."

  Well, if I had one, asshole, the first and last thing you'd see was the flash of the muzzle. It also occurred to me that Khalil would rather not fire a shot that could be heard… or maybe he simply preferred the knife.

  He straightened up and said, "You either have no gun, or you are a coward."

  Well, I had no gun, but I did have a knife he didn't seem to know about. I said, "I can't hear you. Step closer."

  He drew his knife again and moved toward me, saying, "I once flayed a man's flesh from his chest, and I could see his ribs, his lungs, and his beating heart."

  As he came closer, I could see his face more clearly, and he looked exactly like the photograph in the wanted poster-deep, dark, narrow-set eyes, separated by a hooked nose that gave him more the appearance of a bird of prey than a lion.