Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2]

by Lions Game(Lit)

  The Great Leader would be pleased, and soon all of Tripoli and all of Libya would know that a blow had been struck to redeem the nation's honor. Malik would be awake, even at this early morning hour in Tripoli, and he would also know by now, and he would bless Asad Khalil and pray for him.

  Khalil wondered if the Americans would retaliate against his country. It was difficult to guess what this American President would do. The Great Satan, Reagan, had at least been predictable. This President was sometimes weak, sometimes strong.

  In any case, even retaliation would be good. It would awaken all of Libya and all of Islam.

  Khalil turned on the radio and heard people talking about their sexual problems. He set the frequency to a news station and listened for ten minutes before the story of the aircraft came on. He listened carefully to the man speaking, then to other people speaking about what they called the tragedy. It was clear to Khalil that the authorities either did not know what had happened, or they knew and they were hiding it. In either case, even if the police were in a high state of alert, the general population was not. This made things much easier for him;

  Asad Khalil continued south on Route 1-95. The dashboard clock told him it was 8:10 P.M. There was still traffic on the road, enough so that his car would not attract attention. He passed several exits that led to rest stops, brightly lit places in which he could see cars, people, and gasoline pumps. But his fuel gauge read over half full and he wasn't hungry. He took the second liter bottle of water from the overnight bag, finished the water, then urinated in the bottle, screwed the cap back on and put the bottle under the passenger seat. He was, he realized, tired, but not so tired as to fall asleep. He'd slept well on the aircraft.

  They had told him in Tripoli to try to drive through the night—that the more distance he put between himself and what he had left behind, the better his chances would be to escape detection. Soon, he would be in yet another jurisdiction—Delaware—and the more jurisdictions he was from New York and New Jersey, they'd told him, the less likely it would be that the local police would be alerted.

  In any case, the police had no idea what they were looking for. Certainly they didn't know to look for a black Mercury Marquis heading south on any one of many roads. Only a random stop by a patrol car would be a problem, and even then, Khalil knew that his papers were in order. He'd been stopped twice in Europe, where they always demanded to see a passport and at times a visa as well as all the papers for the rental car. Both times he had been sent on his way. Here, according to his people in Tripoli, they wanted to see only a driver's license and a registration for the car, and they wanted to know if you had been drinking alcohol. His religion forbade alcohol, but he was not supposed to say this—say only, "No." But again, he could not conceive of a situation with the police that would last too long before one of them was dead.

  Also, as they had told him, the police usually drove alone, which he found somewhat incredible. Boris, who had spent five years in America, had given him instructions for when he was out of the taxi and driving on his own. Boris had said, "Stay in your car. The policeman will come to you and lean into your window or order you out of the car. One bullet to his head, and you are on your way. But he has radioed your license plate number to his headquarters before he stopped you, and he may have a video camera on his dashboard recording the event. So, you must abandon your automobile as soon as possible and find other transportation. You will have no contacts to help you, Asad. You are on your own until you reach the West Coast of America."

  Khalil had recalled replying, "I have been on my own since the fifteenth of April, nineteen eighty-six."

  At twenty minutes after 9.00 P.M., Khalil crossed into the state of Delaware. Within fifteen minutes, 1-95 turned into the John F. Kennedy Memorial Highway, which was a toll road, so Khalil exited onto Route 40, which paralleled the Interstate south and west toward Baltimore. Within half an hour, he crossed into the state of Maryland.

  Less than an hour later, he was on an Interstate that took him in a circle around the city of Baltimore, then back to I-95, which had no toll at this point. He continued south.

  He had no idea why some roads and bridges were free while others had tolls. In Tripoli, they had no idea either. But his instructions had been clear—avoid toll booths.

  Boris said, "They will, at some point, have a photograph of you at each place where you must pay."

  Khalil saw a large green and white sign that gave distances to various cities, and he saw the one he wanted: WASHINGTON, D.C., 35 MILES. He smiled. He was close to his destination.

  It was nearly midnight, but there was still some traffic on this road that connected the two large cities. In fact, he thought, there was an amazing number of vehicles on the roads, even after dark. It was no wonder why the Americans needed so much oil. He had once read that the Americans burned more oil in one day than Libya did in one year. Soon they would suck the earth dry of all petroleum, then they could walk or ride camels. He laughed.

  At 12:30 A.M., he intersected the road called the Capital Beltway and entered it going south. He looked at his odometer and saw he'd traveled nearly three hundred miles in six hours.

  He exited the Beltway at an exit called Suitland Parkway, near Andrews Air Force Base, and drove along a road that passed through shopping malls and large stores. His Satellite Navigator actually gave him the names of some lodging places, but he had no intention of stopping at well-known places. As he cruised slowly, he took the plastic bottle of urine and threw it out the side window.

  He drove by a few motels, then saw one that looked sufficiently unpleasing. A lighted sign said VACANCIES.

  Khalil pulled into the parking lot, which was almost empty. He took off his tie, put on his glasses, and exited the Mercury, locking the door. He stretched for a second, then strode into the small motel office.

  A young man behind the counter was sitting and watching television. The young man stood and said, "Yes?"

  "I need a room for two days."

  "Eighty dollars, plus tax."

  Khalil put two fifty-dollar bills on the counter.

  The clerk was used to cash guests and said, "I need a hundred dollars for a security deposit. You get it back when you check out."

  Khalil put two more fifties on the counter.

  The young man gave him a registration card, and Khalil filled it out, using the name Ramon Vasquez. He put down the correct make and model of the automobile as he was told to do because it might be checked later when he was in his room. Khalil also put down the correct license plate number and pushed the card to the clerk.

  The clerk gave him a key on a plastic tag, his change, and a receipt for his hundred dollars. He said, "Unit Fifteen. To your right when you walk out. Toward the end. Checkout is at eleven."

  "Thank you."

  Khalil turned and left the small office. He went to his car and drove to the unit marked 15 on the door.

  He took his overnight bag, locked the car, and entered the room, turning on the light switch, which illuminated a lamp.

  Khalil locked the door and bolted it. The room was furnished very simply, he noted, but there was a television, which he turned on.

  He undressed and went into the bathroom, carrying his overnight bag, his bulletproof vest, and the two .40 caliber Glocks.

  He relieved himself, then opened his overnight bag and took out the toiletries. He peeled his mustache off, then brushed his teeth and shaved. He showered quickly, his pistols on the sink nearby.

  Khalil dried himself, took the overnight bag, pistols, and bulletproof vest and re-entered the bedroom. He dressed again, putting on clean undershorts, undershirt, a different tie, and socks from the overnight bag. He also put on the bulletproof vest. He got out the tube of toothpaste with gum for his mustache, and he stood in front of the bedroom mirror and reaffixed the mustache.

  Khalil found the television remote control, sat on the bed, and changed channels until he found a news station. This was a taped rep
lay of an earlier news broadcast, he understood, but it might be useful.

  He watched for fifteen minutes, then the newsman said, "More on the tragedy at Kennedy Airport this afternoon."

  A scene of the airport came on the screen. He recognized a view of the security area off in the distance. He could see the tall tail and the dome of the 747 rising above the steel wall.

  The man's voice was saying, "The death toll is mounting as airport and airline officials confirm that toxic fumes, apparently from unauthorized cargo in the cargo hold, have killed at least two hundred people aboard Trans-Continental Flight One-Seven-Five."

  The newsman went on awhile, but there was nothing to be learned from this report.

  The scene then went to the arrivals terminal where friends and relatives of the victims were weeping. There were many reporters with microphones, Khalil noted, all trying to get interviews with the weeping people. Khalil found this odd. If they thought it was an accident, what difference did it make what these weeping people said? What did they know? Nothing. If the Americans were admitting to a terrorist attack, then certainly these hysterical people should be filmed for propaganda purposes. But as far as he could tell, the reporters only wanted to know about friends and family on the flight. Many of those interviewed, Khalil realized, were still hoping that those they were waiting for had survived. Khalil could tell them with absolute certainty that they had not.

  Khalil kept watching, fascinated by the idiocy of these people, especially the reporters.

  He wanted to see if anyone spoke of the fireman on board whom he had murdered, but it was not mentioned. Neither did anyone say anything about the Conquistador Club, but Khalil knew there would be no mention of that.

  He waited for his picture to come on the screen, but it did not. Instead, the scene shifted again to the newsroom where the newsman was saying, "There is still speculation that this aircraft landed itself. We have with us a former American Airlines 747 pilot, Captain Fred Eames. Welcome."

  Captain Eames nodded, and the reporter asked him, "Captain, is it possible that this aircraft landed itself—with no human hand at the control?"

  Captain Eames replied, "Yes, it is possible. Matter of fact, it is thoroughly routine." The pilot added, "Almost all aircraft can fly a pre-programmed route, but the newest generation of airliners can also automatically control the landing gear, flaps, and brakes, making a totally automatic landing a routine operation. It's done every day. The computers, however, do not control the reverse thrusters, so that an aircraft landing on autopilot needs more runway than it normally would—but at JFK, this isn't a problem."

  The man went on awhile. Asad Khalil listened, though he wasn't that interested. What interested him was that no Federal agents were on the television, and there was no mention of him and no photo. He guessed that the government had decided not to tell what they knew. Not yet. By the time they did, Khalil would be well on his way toward completing his mission. The first twenty-four hours were the most critical, he knew. After that, his chances of being caught decreased with each passing day.

  The story of the deaths on board the aircraft ended, and another story came on. He watched to see if there was any news of the death of Gamal Jabbar, but there was not.

  Asad Khalil shut off the television. When he had driven to Room 15, he had looked at the Mercury's compass and determined which way was east.

  He got off the bed, prostrated himself, facing Mecca, and said his evening prayers.

  He then lay in his bed, fully clothed, and fell into a light sleep.

  CHAPTER 23

  Kate Mayfield, Ted Nash, and I exited 26 Federal Plaza and stood on Broadway.

  There weren't many people around, and the evening had cooled off.

  No one said anything, which didn't mean there was nothing to say. It meant, I think, that we were completely alone for the first time, the three of us who had blown it big-time despite Koenig's kind parting words, and we didn't want to talk about it.

  There's never a taxi or a cop around when you need one, and we stood there, getting cold. Finally, Kate said, "You guys want a drink?"

  Nash replied, "No, thanks. I have to be on the phone half the night with Langley."

  She looked at me. "John?"

  I needed a drink, but I wanted to be alone. I said, "No, thanks. I'm going to get some sleep." I didn't see any taxis, so I said, "I'm taking the subway. Anyone need subway directions?"

  Nash, who probably didn't even know there was a subway in New York City, replied, "I'll wait for a taxi."

  Kate said to me, "I'll share a taxi with Ted."

  "Okay. See you at La Guardia."

  I walked to the corner and glanced up at the Twin Towers before I turned east on Duane Street.

  To my front rose the fourteen-story building called One Police Plaza, and a wave of nostalgia passed over me, followed by a sort of montage of my old life—the Police Academy, rookie cop, street cop, plainclothes cop, then the gold detective shield. Before I'd abruptly left the job, I'd passed the sergeant's exam, and I was about to be promoted from the list. But circumstances beyond my control cut it short. Act Two was teaching at John Jay. This, the ATTF, was the third and final act of a sometimes brilliant, sometimes not so brilliant career.

  I turned north up Centre Street and continued on, past the courthouses, through Chinatown and past my subway entrance.

  Maybe one of the unspoken thoughts that Nash, Kate, and I had out on the sidewalk was the thought that Asad Khalil was gunning for us. In reality, with few exceptions, no one, not organized crime, not subversive groups, not even the drug kings ever went after a Federal agent in America. But we were starting to see something different here with the extremist Islamic groups. There had been incidents, like the CIA parking lot killing, which were unsettling peeks into the future. And that future had arrived today on Flight 175.

  I was in Little Italy now, and my feet found their way to Giulio's Restaurant on Mott Street. I entered the restaurant and went to the bar.

  The restaurant was full on this Saturday night, mostly parties of six and bigger. There were Manhattan trendies, some bridge and tunnel types from the burbs, a few actual Little Italy families, and some tourists from places where people have blond hair. I didn't see any goombahs, who mostly avoided Little Italy on weekends when people came to see goombahs.

  I recalled, however, that a Mafia don was whacked here on a Friday night about ten years ago. Actually, he was whacked out on the sidewalk, but re-entered the restaurant through the plate glass window, having been lifted off his feet by a shotgun blast fired by some other goombah's designated hitter. As I recall, the don didn't actually die because he was wearing a Little Italy T-shirt—a bulletproof vest—but he was murdered later by some married lady that he was porking.

  Anyway, I didn't recognize the bartender, or anyone at the bar or at the tables. During the week, I might have run into some of my old buds, but not tonight, which was fine.

  I ordered a double Dewar's, straight up with a Bud chaser. No use wasting time.

  I banged back the Dewar's and sipped on the beer.

  Above the bar was a TV with its sound off. At the bottom of the screen, where stock prices usually run continuously during the week, there was a running line of sports scores. On the screen itself was a Mafia sitcom called The Sopranos, which everyone at the bar was watching. The Mafia guys I know love this show.

  After a few rounds, when I was feeling better, I left and caught a taxi, which are plentiful in Little Italy, and went back to my condominium on East 72nd Street.

  I live in a clean, modern high rise with a terrific view of the East River, and my apartment shows none of the funkiness associated with unmarried New York City detectives. My life is messy, but my digs are clean. This is partly the result of my starter marriage, which lasted about two years. Her name was Robin, and she had been an Assistant District Attorney in the Manhattan DA's office, which is how I'd met her. Most female ADAs marry other attorneys. Robin marrie
d a cop. We were married by a judge, but I should have asked for a jury.

  Anyway, as often happens with sharp ADAs, Robin was offered and took a job with a law firm that specialized in defending the scumbags she and I were trying to put away. The money got good, but the marriage got bad. Philosophical differences of the irreconcilable sort. I got the condo. The vig is very high.

  Alfred, my night doorman, greeted me and held the door open.

  I checked my mailbox, which was full of junk mail. I was half expecting a letter bomb from Ted Nash, but so far he was showing admirable restraint.

  I took the elevator up and entered my apartment, taking minimal precautions. Even I had trouble getting past Alfred for the first month or two of my marriage. He didn't like the idea that I was sleeping with my wife, who he'd taken a liking to. Anyway, Robin and I had both briefed Alfred and the other doormen that we were associated with law enforcement, and that we had enemies. All the doormen understood, and their Christmas and Easter bonuses reflected our appreciation of their loyalty, discretion, and vigilance. On the other hand, since my divorce, I think Alfred would give my keys to Jack the Ripper for a twenty-buck tip.

  Anyway, I went through the living room with the big terrace and into the den where I turned on the TV to CNN. The TV wasn't working right and needed some percussive maintenance, which I performed by smacking it three times with my hand. A snowy picture appeared, but CNN was doing a financial report.

  I went to the phone and hit the message button on my answering machine. Beth Penrose, at 7:16, said, "Hi, John. I have a feeling you were at JFK today. I remember you said something about that. That was terrible—tragic. My God . . . anyway, if you're on that, good luck. Sorry we couldn't get together tonight. Call when you can."

  That's one advantage of a cop going out with a cop. Both parties understand. I don't think there are any other advantages.

  The second message was from my former partner, Dom Fanelli. He said, "Holy shit. Did I hear right that you caught the squeal at JFK? I told you not to take that job. Call me."