The Lion's Game

by Nelson DeMille

  The less she knew, the better for her, of course, so I said, "Men's room."

  She asked, "Who's covering him? Is he moving?"

  "Uh... not too much."

  "John--"

  "Call the SO team and report his last location."

  We got to the SUV and I said I'd drive. She gave me the keys, we got in, and I pulled away.

  Lisa called the surveillance team and told them I'd left Big Bird in the men's room, which they already knew. She listened, then signed off and said to me, "Big Bird... had a fall or something."

  "Slippery when wet."

  I headed out of town toward the Jersey Turnpike.

  After a few minutes, she asked me, "Did you... have an encounter with him?"

  "Hey, how'd we do? What do you have there?"

  She glanced at the container on the floor and said, "I think we won ten bucks."

  "Not bad for an hour's work."

  She stayed silent, then said, "Well... I suppose he's not in a good position to make a complaint."

  I didn't reply.

  We got onto the Turnpike northbound toward the city, which was about 130 miles away, less than two hours if I pushed it. The sun was below the horizon and the western sky was rapidly fading into darkness.

  Lisa asked, "Are we, like, on the lam?"

  "No. We are the law."

  "Right." She added, "They told me I'd learn a lot from you."

  "Am I a legend?"

  "In your own mind." She then observed, "You seem like a nice guy and you're smart. But you have another side to you."

  I didn't reply.

  She further observed, "You're into payback."

  "Well, if I am, I'm in the right business."

  She had no response to that, and we continued on in silence.

  Awhile later, she said to me, "If something comes up about tonight, you were never out of my sight."

  I assured her, "Nothing will come up. But thanks."

  "And maybe you'll do the same for me someday."

  "No maybes about it."

  She glanced at me, then stared out the windshield at the dark road ahead. She said, as if to herself, "This is a tough business."

  And what was your first clue? I replied, "And getting tougher."

  She nodded, then said, "Good."

  I stopped at a turnpike rest area, and Lisa Sims got her muffin, I got gas, and we both got coffees to go.

  Back on the road, we talked mostly about living in New York, and a little about me being at the Towers when they were hit. It changes you. Seeing thousands of people die changes you.

  We took the Holland Tunnel into Manhattan, and I dropped her off at 26 Fed, where she had some work to do. I reminded her, "Give the tokens to accounting."

  I continued on to my apartment on East 72nd and got in the door a little after 10 P.M.

  Kate was home, watching the ten o'clock news, and she asked me, "How did it go?"

  "Okay. The target went down to AC and we followed."

  "Drink?"

  "Sure." I asked, "How did your day go?"

  "Office all day."

  We made drinks, clinked, smooched, and sat down and watched the news together.

  I was waiting for a story about an Iranian U.N. diplomat who was found in the men's room of the Taj Mahal Casino with his nuts stuck in his throat, but apparently this was not going to be a news item.

  We shut off the TV, and Kate and I chatted about our day of fighting the war on terrorism. After exhausting that subject, she reminded me that we were going upstate for the weekend--skydiving.

  This was not my favorite subject, though she was excited about it.

  Aside from the fact that I don't like trees and woods and bears and whatever else is north of the Bronx, I damned sure don't like jumping out of planes. I have no particular fear of heights or even death, but I see no reason to put myself in danger for fun. I mean, I get enough danger on my job. And all the fun I want. Like tonight.

  But I'm a good guy and a good husband, so I've taken up skydiving. And in the spirit of quid pro quo--as the diplomats say--Kate has taken up drinking and oral sex. It works.

  I went out to my 34th-floor balcony and looked south down the length of Manhattan Island. What a view. Gone from view, however, were the Twin Towers, and I held up two fingers in a V where they used to be. Victory and peace.

  Not in my lifetime, but maybe someday.

  Meanwhile, the name of the game, as Lisa Sims figured out, was payback.

  PART II

  California

  CHAPTER THREE

  Asad Khalil, Libyan terrorist, traveling on a forged Egyptian passport, walked quickly down the Jetway that connected his Air France jetliner to Terminal Two of Los Angeles International Airport.

  The flight from Cairo to Paris had been uneventful as had the flight from Paris to Los Angeles. The initial boarding at Cairo Airport had been even more uneventful thanks to well-placed friends who had expedited his passage through Egyptian passport control. In Paris, he had a two-hour layover in the transit lounge and did not have to go through a second security check, which could have been a problem. And now he was in America. Or nearly so.

  Khalil walked with his fellow Air France passengers toward the passport control booths. Most of the people on board the flight were French nationals, though that included many fellow Muslims with French citizenship. Perhaps a fourth of the passengers were Egyptians who had boarded the flight in Cairo and like him had waited in the De Gaulle Airport transit lounge to board the Boeing 777 non-stop to Los Angeles. In any case, Khalil thought, he did not stand out among his fellow travelers and he had been assured by his Al Qaeda friends that this particular route would get him at least this far without a problem. All that remained was for him to get through American passport control with his forged Egyptian documents. Customs would be no problem; he had nothing to declare and he carried nothing with him except his hate for America, which he could easily conceal.

  There were ten passport control booths operating, and he stood in the line with other arriving passengers. He glanced at his watch, which he had set to the local time: 5:40 P.M.; a busy hour, which was part of the plan.

  Asad Khalil wore a bespoke blue sports blazer, tan slacks, expensive loafers, and a button-down oxford shirt--an outfit that he knew gave off the image of a man of the upper middle class who may have attended the right schools and was no threat to anyone except perhaps his drinking companions or his financial advisor. He was a westernized Egyptian tourist by the name of Mustafa Hasheem, carrying a confirmed reservation at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and in his overnight bag he had a Los Angeles Fodor's guide in English, which he spoke almost fluently.

  He scanned the passport control officers hoping there was not an Arab-American among them. Those men or women could be a problem. Especially if they engaged him in a seemingly friendly conversation. "And in what quarter of Cairo do you live, Mr. Hasheem?" And if the friendly conversation was in Arabic, there could be a problem with his Libyan accent.

  Asad Khalil walked quickly, as most passengers did, to the next available booth. The passport control officer was a middle-aged man who looked bored and tired, but who could also become alert in an instant. The man took Khalil's passport, visa, and customs declaration form and stared at them, then flipped through the passport pages, then returned to the photo page and divided his attention between the photograph and the man standing before him. Khalil smiled, as did most people at this juncture.

  The man, who Khalil thought could possibly be Hispanic, said to him, "What is the purpose of your visit?"

  To kill, Khalil thought to himself, but replied, "Tourism."

  The man glanced at Khalil's customs form and said, "You're staying at the Beverly Hilton?"

  "The Beverly Hills Hotel."

  "You're here for two weeks?"

  "That is correct."

  "What is your next destination?"

  Home or Paradise. Khalil replied, "Home."

  "You h
ave a confirmed return flight?"

  In fact he did, though he wouldn't be on that flight, but he replied, "Yes."

  "You have a reservation at the Beverly Hills Hotel?"

  He did, though he knew not to offer to show it unless asked. He replied, "Yes."

  The man looked into Khalil's deep, dark eyes, and Khalil could tell that this passport officer, who had seen and heard much over the years, had a small doubt in his mind that could grow into a larger doubt in the next few seconds of eye contact. Khalil remained impassive, showing no signs of anxiety and no feigned impatience.

  The man turned his attention to his computer and began typing as he glanced at Khalil's passport.

  Khalil waited. The passport itself, he knew, looked genuine, with just the right amount of wear and a few entry and exit stamps, all from European countries, with corresponding entries to Cairo. But the information in the passport was not genuine. His Al Qaeda friends, who knew much about American airport security, did not, unfortunately, know much about what the computer databank was capable of knowing or detecting--or suspecting. As always, it came down to the man.

  The passport officer turned away from his computer screen, looked again at the Egyptian tourist, then hesitated a second before opening the passport and stamping it. He said, "Welcome to the United States, Mr. Hasheem. Have a pleasant visit."

  "Thank you."

  The man made a mark on the customs form, and Khalil collected his documents and moved toward the baggage carousels.

  He was now one step closer to the security doors that he could see beyond the customs inspection area.

  He stood at the luggage carousel and waited for it to begin moving, aware that he and his fellow Air France passengers were being watched on video monitors. It was here that people sometimes revealed themselves, unaware or forgetting that they were being watched. Khalil assumed the pose and the blank gaze of the other tired passengers who stared at the carousel opening.

  In truth, his heart had sped up just a bit at the passport control booth, which surprised and annoyed him. He had long ago trained himself--or his mind--to remain calm under any circumstances, and his body obeyed; his skin remained dry, his mouth remained moist, and his face and muscles did not tense or betray fear. But he had not yet learned to control his heart, which if it could be seen and heard would reveal all that his mind worked to overcome. This was interesting, he thought, and perhaps not a bad thing; if he had to fight, to kill, it was good that his heart was ready, like a cocked gun.

  A harsh buzzer sounded, a red light flashed, and the carousel began to move. Within five minutes he had retrieved his one medium-size bag and wheeled it toward the customs counters.

  He was able to choose his counter and his inspector, which he thought was poor security. He chose a counter with a young man--never choose a woman, especially an attractive one--and handed the man his customs form. The man looked at it and asked him, "Anything to declare?"

  "No."

  The man glanced at the black suitcase that was behind Khalil and said, "If I looked in there, would I find anything you're not supposed to have?"

  Asad Khalil answered truthfully, "No."

  The young man joked, "No hashish?"

  Khalil returned the smile and replied, "No."

  "Thank you."

  Khalil continued on. The security doors were ten meters away and it was here, he knew, that he would be stopped if they intended to stop him. He had no weapon, of course, but he felt confident that there were not many men whom he could not disable or disarm, and he was close enough to the doors to escape into the crowded terminal. He might not make good on his escape, but if he had one of their weapons he could kill a number of them and shoot a few passengers while he was at it. Death did not frighten him; capture frightened him. A failed mission frightened his soul.

  A few meters from the doors, Khalil stopped, let go of his luggage handle, and made a pretense of checking his pockets for his papers and his wallet, the way many passengers did before exiting the security area. Anyone who was watching could plainly see that he was not overly anxious to get out of the area. And he could see if anyone seemed too interested in him. The Americans, he knew, especially the FBI, did not often make preemptive or premature arrests; they followed you. And kept following you. And they saw who you met and where you went, and what you did. And a week or a month later they would make the arrests and then thank you for your help.

  Asad Khalil walked through the security doors into the crowded terminal.

  A small group of people waited near the doors for their arriving friends or family members. Another group, livery drivers, stood in a line holding up signs with the names of their expected passengers.

  Khalil moved past them and followed signs that directed him to the taxi stand. He exited Terminal Two and stood in a short line of people as taxis moved up the line and took on passengers. Within a few minutes, he and his suitcase were in a taxi and he said to the driver, "The Beverly Hills Hotel."

  As the taxi moved toward the airport exit, Khalil noted absently that it was a very fine day. He had been to Los Angeles once before, and also to the area north of the city, and every day seemed to be a fine day. Why else would anyone live in this place?

  The driver asked him, "First time in LA?"

  "No."

  "You like it here?"

  "I keep returning."

  "Business or pleasure?"

  Killing Mr. Chip Wiggins would be both a business and a pleasure, so Khalil replied, "Both."

  "I hope you have fun and make lots of money."

  "Thank you."

  Khalil took his guidebook from his overnight bag and pretended to read it, and the driver settled into a silence.

  Khalil slipped a pocket mirror from his bag and placed it into the book that he held in front of his face. He scanned the traffic to his rear but couldn't see any vehicles that appeared to be following them as they entered the freeway and continued north toward Beverly Hills.

  Within half an hour, they pulled into the long, palm-lined drive that led to the pink stucco hotel on the hill.

  The vegetation was very lush, Khalil noticed, and on this fine day in May thousands of flowers were in bloom. It was, he imagined, what the Garden of Eden must have looked like. Except here, there were many serpents, and here, bare flesh would never be an embarrassment.

  Khalil paid the driver, allowed a porter to take his suitcase, but not his overnight bag, and entered the hotel lobby and checked in under his assumed name. The receptionist, a young lady, assured him that all charges, including incidentals, were prepaid by his company in Cairo, and that no credit card was necessary. He let the receptionist know that he might not be returning to the hotel this evening and that he did not require turndown service, a wake-up call, or a newspaper in the morning. In fact, he required nothing but privacy.

  He was shown to his room in the main building, a spacious and sunny suite on the second floor overlooking the pool.

  Asad Khalil stood on the small balcony and looked out at the swimming pool where men and women paraded and lounged, and he wondered at men who would allow their wives to be seen half naked by other men. He did not wonder at the women who had no shame; women were shameless if it was allowed.

  He found himself aroused at the sight of these women, and when his doorbell rang he had to remove his jacket and hold it in front of him as he answered. Yes, that was another thing his mind had trouble controlling.

  The bellman entered with his suitcase and asked if the accommodations were satisfactory and if he required anything further.

  Khalil assured him everything was satisfactory, and when the bellman left, Khalil put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on his door, then unpacked his suitcase. He sat at the desk with a bottled water and waited for his call.

  The phone rang, and he answered, "Hasheem."

  The voice at the other end said in English, "This is Gabbar. Are you well, sir?"

  "I am. And how is your father?"

&nbs
p; "Quite well, thank you."

  The sign and countersign having been given, Khalil said to Gabbar, "Five minutes. I have a flower for your wife."

  "Yes, sir."

  Khalil hung up and went again to the balcony. Many of the men, he now noticed, were fat, and many of them had young women with them. Waiters carried trays of beverages to the lounge chairs and tables. It was the cocktail hour; the time to cloud one's mind with alcohol. Asad Khalil recalled the Roman ruins in his native Libya, and he imagined fat Romans in the public baths drinking wine poured by slave girls. "Pigs," he said aloud. "Fat pigs to the slaughter."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Asad Khalil, carrying a flower from his room, walked through the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel, noticing a few men whom he recognized as fellow Arabs--men who aped the dress and the manners of the Americans and Europeans. These men, he knew, were more dangerous to Islam than the infidels. They would be dealt with next, and without mercy.

  Khalil walked out of the lobby and a doorman asked if he needed a taxi. Khalil had noticed on his last visit here, three years before, that no one walked anywhere in this city. Even a trip of a block or two necessitated an automobile. In fact, he was surprised that the hotel did not provide sedan chairs for guests going to the pool. Roman pigs.

  He replied to the doorman, "I am waiting for a car."

  "Yes, sir."

  A blue Ford Taurus that had been sitting nearby moved forward and stopped at the doors. The driver did not exit, but signaled to Khalil, who got quickly into the passenger seat, and the car moved off.

  The driver, whom he knew as Gabbar, said in Arabic, "Good evening, sir."

  Khalil did not respond.

  The driver headed down the long driveway and said, "I have taken a room under my own name at the Best Western hotel in Santa Barbara."

  Khalil nodded and asked, "And what is your name?"

  The driver replied, "It is Farid Mansur, sir," but he did not ask his passenger what his real name was.

  Khalil inquired, "And what do you do here, Mr. Mansur?"