Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2]

by Lions Game(Lit)

  I asked, "Excuse me, sir. Do any of Khalil's victims have anything in common?"

  "No, they really don't. Not yet, anyway. Certainly no one on board that flight had much in common, except their destination. But a very clever person might create red herrings by targeting a few people who are not in any way connected to his real targets. We've seen this with domestic bombers who try to throw us off by exploding a device where we least expected it."

  I wasn't so sure about that.

  Bob continued, "We have contacted every overseas law enforcement and intelligence agency for anything they may have on this Asad Khalil. We've sent his fingerprints out as well as photographs. But so far—and this is early innings—no one seems to have anything on him, other than what you've read in the dossier. This man seems to have no contacts among known extremist organizations here or anywhere in the world. He is a lone wolf, but we know he couldn't pull off this stuff by himself. Therefore, we think he is being run directly by Libyan Intelligence, who are heavily influenced by the old KGB. The Libyans trained him, financed him, sent him on a few European missions to see what he was made of, then concocted this plan where Khalil would turn himself in to the American Embassy in Paris. As you know, there was a similar defection in February, which we believe was a dry run."

  Jack Koenig reminded Bob, "The ATTF in New York delivered this February defector to the FBI and the CIA here in Washington, and someone let him walk away."

  Bob replied, "I have no firsthand knowledge of that, but that's correct."

  Jack pressed on, "If the February guy hadn't gotten away, the April guy—Khalil—would never have arrived the way he did."

  "That's true," Bob said. "But I assure you, he would have arrived one way or another."

  Koenig asked, "Do you have any leads on the February defector? If we could find him—"

  "He's dead," Bob informed us. "The Maryland State Police reported a burned and decomposed body found in the woods outside of Silver Spring. No ID, no clothes, fingerprints burned, face burned. They called the FBI Missing Persons, who in turn knew that the Counter-terrorist section had a missing defector. Our tattoos did not survive, but we were able to match the dental imprints to the imprints we took of this guy while he was our guest in Paris. So, that's that."

  No one spoke for a few seconds, then Jack said, "No one told me about that."

  Bob replied, "You should take that up with the Deputy Director in charge of Counterterrorist operations."

  "Thank you."

  Bob concluded with, "Meanwhile, we have legitimate Libyan defectors here and in Europe, and we're questioning them about any knowledge they may have of Asad Khalil. Libya is a country of only five million people, so we may turn up something about Khalil, if that's his real family name. So far, we haven't learned anything about Asad Khalil from emigres or defectors. However, we do know that a man named Karim Khalil, a Libyan who held the rank of Army captain, was murdered in Paris in nineteen eighty-one. The Surete tells us that Karim Khalil was probably murdered by his own people, and the Libyan government tried to pin it on Mossad." Bob continued, "The French believe that Moammar Gadhafi was the lover of Captain Khalil's wife, Faridah, and that's why Gadhafi got rid of him." Bob smiled and said, "But I emphasize that is a French explanation. Cherchez la femme."

  We all chuckled. Those crazy Frenchmen. Everything had to do with boom, boom, boom.

  Bob continued, "We're trying to determine if Asad Khalil is related to Captain Karim Khalil. Asad is old enough to be Karim's son or maybe nephew. But even if we establish a relationship, that may not be significant to this case."

  I suggested, "Why don't we ask the news media to put out that story about Mr. Gadhafi and Mrs. Khalil, and Gadhafi getting rid of Karim Khalil to make his love life easier. Then, if Asad is Karim's son, he'll read this or hear it on the news, and he'll go home and kill Gadhafi—his father's killer. That's what a good Arab would do. The blood feud. Right? Wouldn't that be great?"

  Bob thought a moment, cleared his throat and said, "I'll pass that along."

  Ted Nash picked up the ball, as I knew he would. He said, "That's actually not a bad idea."

  Bob was clearly out of his depth with this kind of thinking. He said, "Let's find out first if a family relationship exists. This kind of . . . psychological operation could well backfire. But we'll put it on the agenda for the next Counterterrorism meeting."

  Jean spoke and introduced herself by another name. She said, "My responsibility in this case is to review all of the cases in Europe that we believe Asad Khalil was connected to. We don't want to duplicate the work of the CIA—" she nodded to Super-Agent Nash "—but now that Asad Khalil is here, or was here, the FBI needs to familiarize themselves with Khalil's overseas activities."

  Jean went on, talking about interservice cooperation, international cooperation, and so forth.

  Clearly, Asad Khalil, who had been no more than a suspected terrorist, was now the most wanted terrorist in the world since Carlos the Jackal. The Lion had arrived. The Lion, I was certain, was absolutely thrilled and flattered by all the attention. What he had done in Europe, bad as it was, did not make him a major player in today's world of headline-grabbing terrorism. Certainly he had not come to the attention of the American public in a big way. His name had never been mentioned in the news; only his deeds had been reported, and the only one that caused a stir, as far as I could recall, was the murder of the three American kids in Belgium. Soon, when the true story broke of what happened yesterday, Asad Khalil's photo would be everywhere. This would make life outside Libya difficult for him, which was why a lot of people thought he'd run home. But I thought he would like nothing better than beating us at his game on our home field.

  Jean concluded her talk with, "We'll stay closely in touch with the ATTF in New York. All information will be shared by us with you, and by you with us. Information is like gold in our business—everyone wants it, and no one wants to share it. So let's say that we're not sharing—we're borrowing from one another, and all accounts will be settled at the end."

  I really couldn't resist a zinger, and I said, "Ma'am, you have my assurance that if Asad Khalil turns up dead in the woods in Central Park, we'll let you know."

  Ted Nash laughed. I was beginning to like this guy. In this milieu, we had more in common with each other than we had in common with the nice and neat people in this building. There's a depressing thought.

  Bob asked us, "Any questions?"

  I asked, "Where do the X-Files people hang out?"

  Koenig said, "Stow it, Corey."

  "Yes, sir."

  Anyway, it was nearly 6:00 P.M., and I figured we were through since we weren't told to bring toothbrushes. But no, we all moved to a big conference room with a table the length of a football field.

  About thirty people drifted in, most of whom we'd already met today at various stations of the cross.

  The Deputy Director of Counterterrorism made an appearance, gave a five-minute sermon, then ascended to heaven or somewhere.

  We spent almost two hours in conference, mostly rehashing the ten-hour day, exchanging gold nuggets, and coming up with a plan of attack, and so forth.

  Each of us got a thick dossier containing photos, contact names and numbers, and even recaps of what was said today, which must have been tape-recorded, transcribed, edited, and typed as the day progressed. Truly, this was a world-class organization.

  Kate was kind enough to put all my papers in her attaché case, which now bulged. She advised me, "Always bring an attaché case. There are always handouts." She added, "An attaché case is a tax-deductible item."

  The big conference ended, and everyone filed out into the corridor. We did a little chitchat here and there, but basically it was over. I could almost smell the air on Pennsylvania Avenue. Car, airport, 9:00 P.M. shuttle, 10:00 P.M. at La Guardia, home before the 11 o'clock news. I remembered some leftover Chinese food in the fridge and tried to determine how old it was.

  Just then,
a guy in a blue suit named Bob or Bill came up to us and asked if we'd like to follow him and go to see the Deputy Director.

  This was the proverbial straw that broke the proverbial camel's back, and I replied, "No."

  But "no" wasn't an option.

  The good news was that Ted Nash was not invited into the inner sanctum, but he didn't seem put off, He said, "I have to get to Langley tonight."

  We all hugged, promised to write and stay in touch, and blew kisses as we parted. With any luck, I'd never see Ted Nash again.

  So, Jack, Kate, and I with our escort got on the elevator and went up to the seventh floor and were shown into a dark, paneled office with a big desk, behind which was the Deputy Director of Counterterrorist operations.

  The sun was gone from the heavens, and the room was lit by a single green-shaded lamp on the Deputy Director's desk. The effect of the dim lighting at waist level was that no one could see anyone's face clearly. This was really dramatic, like a scene in a Mafia flick where don Goombah decides who gets whacked.

  Anyway, we shook hands all around—hands were easy to find near the lamp—then we sat.

  The Deputy Director went through a little spiel about yesterday and today, then got to tomorrow. He was brief. He said, "The ATTF in New York metro is in a unique position to work this case. We won't interfere, and we won't send you anyone you don't ask for. At least for now. This department will, of course, take on the responsibility for everything outside of your operational area. We'll keep you well informed on anything that turns up. We'll try to work closely with the CIA, and we'll brief you on that as well. I suggest you proceed as though Khalil is still in New York. Turn the place upside down and inside out. Lean heavily on your sources and offer money when you need to. I'll authorize a budget of one hundred thousand dollars for buying information. The Justice Department will offer a one-million-dollar reward for the arrest of Asad Khalil. That should put some heat on him vis-a-vis his compatriots in the U.S. Questions?"

  Jack said, "No, sir."

  "Good. Oh, and one more thing." He looked at me, then at Kate. He said, "Think about how you might lure Asad Khalil into a trap."

  I replied, "You mean think about me using myself as bait."

  "I didn't say that. I just said think of the best way to lure Asad Khalil into a trap. Whatever the best way is, you'll think of it."

  Kate said, "John and I will talk it over."

  "Good." He stood. "Thank you for giving up your Sunday." He added, "Jack, I'd like to speak to you a moment."

  We pressed the flesh again, and Kate and I were out. We were escorted to the elevator by the guy in the blue suit, and he wished us good luck and good hunting.

  In the lobby, we were met by a security guy, who invited us to sit. Kate and I sat, but said nothing.

  I didn't know or care what Jack and the Deputy Director were talking about, as long as it wasn't me—and I was certain they had more important things to discuss than me or my behavior. Actually, I wasn't that bad today, and I had a few gold stars for almost saving the game yesterday. But that only goes so far.

  I looked at Kate, and she looked at me. Here, in the Ministry of Love, even face crimes were noted, so we didn't reveal anything except steadfast optimism. I didn't even look at her crossed legs.

  Ten minutes later Jack appeared and informed us, "I'm staying the night. You two go on, and I'll see you tomorrow." He added, "Brief George in the morning. I'll assemble all the teams tomorrow at some point, and we'll get everyone up-to-date, and see if they've turned up any leads, then we'll decide how to proceed."

  Kate said, "John and I will stop at Federal Plaza tonight and see what's happening."

  What?

  "Good," Jack said. "But don't burn out. This will be a long race, and as Mr. Corey says, 'Second place is the first loser.'" He looked at us and pronounced, "You both did very well today." He said to me, "I hope you have a better appreciation of the FBI."

  "Absolutely. Great bunch of guys and girls. Women. I'm not sure about Ben, though."

  "Ben is fine," Jack said. "It's Ted you should keep an eye on."

  My goodness.

  So, we all shook hands and off we went, Kate and I with the security guy down into the basement garage, where a car whisked us to the airport.

  In the car, I asked, "How did I do?"

  "Borderline."

  "I thought I did fine."

  "That's scary."

  "I'm trying."

  "You're very trying."

  CHAPTER 33

  Asad Khalil saw a sign that said WELCOME TO SOUTH CAROLINA—THE PALMETTO STATE.

  He didn't understand what that last line meant, but he understood the next sign that said DRIVE CAREFULLY—STATE LAWS STRICTLY ENFORCED.

  He looked at his dashboard and saw that it was 4:10 P.M. The temperature remained at 2 5 degrees Celsius.

  Forty minutes later, he saw the exits for Florence and for I-20 to Columbia and Atlanta. He had memorized parts of a road map of the South, so that he could give false but plausible destinations for anyone who asked. Now that he was passing the Interstate highway for Columbia and Atlanta, his next false destination would be Charleston or Savannah.

  In any case, he had a good road map in the glove box, and he had the Satellite Navigator, if he needed to refresh his memory.

  Khalil noticed that the traffic was heavier around this city of Florence, and he welcomed the other vehicles after so many miles of feeling exposed.

  Strangely, he'd seen no police vehicles except the one that appeared at the worst possible moment when the four whores had come up beside him.

  He knew, however, that there were unmarked police cars on the road, though he never noticed such a vehicle with police in it.

  His driving had become more assured since leaving New Jersey, and he was able to mimic the driving habits of those around him. There were an amazing number of old people driving, he'd noticed—something one rarely saw in Europe or Libya. The elderly drove very badly.

  There were also many young people with cars—again, something he rarely saw in Europe or Libya. The young, too, drove badly, but in a different way than the elderly.

  Also, many women drove in America. There were women drivers in Europe, but not as many as here. Incredibly, he'd seen women driving men here, a thing he rarely saw in Europe, and never saw in Libya where almost no women drove at all. The women drivers, he decided, were competent but sometimes erratic, and often aggressive—like the whores who had been driving in North Carolina.

  Asad Khalil believed that American men had lost control of their women. He recalled the words of the Koran, "Men have authority over women because Allah has made the one superior to the other, and because men spend their wealth to maintain women. Good women are obedient. They guard their unseen parts because Allah has guarded them. As for those women from whom you fear disobedience, admonish them and send them to beds apart, and beat them. Then, if they obey you, do nothing further against them."

  Khalil couldn't comprehend how Western women had gained so much power and influence, reversing the natural order of God and nature, but he suspected that it had to do with democracy, where each vote was counted equally.

  For some reason, his mind returned to the aircraft, to the time when it had been moved to the security area. He thought again of the man and the woman he had seen, both wearing badges, both giving orders as though they were equal. His mind could not grasp the idea of two people of the opposite sex working in concert, speaking to one another, touching, perhaps even sharing meals. And more amazing was the fact that the female was a police officer and was undoubtedly armed. He wondered how the parents of these women had allowed their daughters to be so brazen and masculine.

  He recalled his first trip to Europe—Paris—and thought back at how shocked and offended he had been at the looseness and boldness of the women. Over the years, he had become almost accustomed to European women, but every time he went back to Europe—and now in America—he was newly offended
and incredulous.

  Western women walked alone, spoke to strange men, worked in shops and offices, exposed their flesh, and even argued with men. Khalil recalled the scripture stories of Sodom and Gomorrah, and of Babylon, before the coming of Islam. He knew that these cities had fallen because of the iniquities and sexual looseness of the women. Surely all of Europe and America would someday suffer the same fate. How could their civilization survive if the women behaved like whores, or like slaves who had overturned their masters?

  Whatever God these people believed in, or did not believe in, had abandoned them, and would one day destroy them. But for now, for some reason he could not fathom, these immoral nations were powerful. Therefore, it fell to him, Asad Khalil, and others like him to deliver the punishment of his God, until their own God, the one God of Abraham and Isaac, delivered salvation or death.

  Khalil continued on, ignoring the feeling of thirst that was growing in him.

  He turned on the radio and scanned the frequencies. Some frequencies had a strange music, which a man on the radio called country-western. Some frequencies had music such as he'd heard on the radio north of Washington. A large number of frequencies were broadcasting what Khalil identified as Christian services or religious music. One man was reading from the Christian testament and the Hebrew testament. The man's accent and tonation was so odd that Khalil would not have understood a word he was saying if not for the fact that he recognized many of the passages. He listened for a while, but the man would often stop reading the scripture, then begin talking about the scripture, and Khalil could understand only half of what he was saying. This was interesting, but confusing. He changed the frequencies until he found a news station.

  The newsman spoke understandable English, and Khalil listened to twenty minutes of the man speaking about rapes, robberies, and murders, then about politics, then about the news of the world.

  Finally, the man said, "The National Transportation Safety Board and the FAA have issued a joint statement regarding the tragic incident at John F. Kennedy Airport in New York. According to the statement, there were no survivors of the tragedy. Federal officials say that the pilots may have been able to land the aircraft before they succumbed to toxic fumes, or they may have programmed the aircraft's flight computer to make an unassisted landing when they realized they were being overcome by fumes. FAA officials are not saying if there are any recorded radio transmissions from the pilots, but one unidentified official is calling the pilots heros for getting the aircraft on the ground without endangering the safety of anyone at or near the airport. The FAA and the Safety Board are calling the tragedy an accident, but the investigation of the cause is continuing. Again, it is now official—there were no survivors on Trans-Continental Flight One-Seven-Five from Paris, and the death toll is estimated at three hundred and fourteen, crew and passengers. More on this story as it develops."