Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2]

by Lions Game(Lit)

  If I wasn't, I could be in professional trouble, and if I was, I could get into personal trouble. I thought I should wait and see. In other words, when it comes to women, I played it safe.

  We deplaned, got outside, got into a taxi, and went to Federal Plaza via the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and the Brooklyn Bridge.

  As we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, I asked Kate, "Do you like New York?"

  "No. Do you?"

  "Of course."

  "Why? This place is crazy."

  "Washington is crazy. New York is eccentric and interesting."

  "New York is crazy. I'm sorry I took this assignment. None of the FBI people like it. It's too expensive, and our cost-of-living allowance barely covers the extra expenses."

  "Then why did you take this assignment?"

  "For the same reasons that military people take hardship assignments and volunteer for combat. It's a quick career boost. You have to do New York and D.C. at least once to get ahead." She added, "And it's challenging. Also, bizarre and unbelievable things happen here. You can go on to any of the other fifty-five field offices around the country, and you'll have New York stories to tell the rest of your life."

  "Well," I said, "I think New York gets a bad rap. Look, I'm a New Yorker. Am I weird?"

  I didn't catch her reply, maybe because the cabbie was screaming at a pedestrian and the pedestrian was screaming back. They spoke different languages, so the exchange didn't last as long as it might have.

  We pulled up to Federal Plaza, and Kate paid the driver. We went to the after-hours door on the south side, and Kate opened it by means of a security code keypad. Kate had her keys for the elevator, and we went up to the twenty-seventh floor where some of the suits hung out.

  There were a dozen people there, looking tired, unhappy, and worried. Phones were ringing, faxes were dinging, and a moronic computer voice was telling people, "You've got mail!" Kate chatted with everyone, then checked her phone messages, her e-mail, then checked the commo for the day and so forth. There was an e-mail from George Foster, which said, "Meeting—as per Jack—28th-floor conference room, 0800 hours." Unbelievable. Koenig, in DC., calls an 8:00 A.M. meeting in New York. These people were either tireless or scared shitless. Probably the latter, in which case, you can't get much sleep anyway.

  Kate asked me, "Do you want to check your desk?"

  My desk in the cubicle farm was a floor below, and I really didn't think I'd have anything different down there than Kate had up here, so I said, "I'll check it tomorrow when I arrive at five."

  She poked around awhile longer, and I stood there feeling close to useless, so I said, "I'm going home."

  She put down whatever she was reading and said, "No, you're buying me a drink." She added, "Do you want your papers from my attache case?"

  "I'll get them tomorrow."

  "We can look at some of this stuff later, if you'd like."

  This sounded like an invitation to spend a long night together, and I hesitated, then said, "That's all right."

  She put the attache case under her desk.

  So we left and found ourselves in the dark, quiet street again, cabless and this time I was gunless. I really don't need my gun to make me feel safe and secure, and New York has become a pretty safe city, but it's nice to have a little something on you when you suspect that a terrorist is trying to murder you. But Kate was carrying, so I said, "Let's walk."

  We walked. There's not much open at this hour on a Sunday night, not even in the city that never sleeps, but Chinatown is usually half awake on Sunday night, so I headed that way.

  We didn't exactly walk arm in arm, but Kate walked close to me and our shoulders kept brushing, and now and then she put her hand on my arm or shoulder as we chatted. Obviously, the woman liked me, but maybe she was just horny. I don't like being taken advantage of by horny women, but it happens.

  Anyway, we got to this place in Chinatown that I knew, called the New Dragon. Years ago, over dinner with some other cops, I had asked the proprietor, Mr. Chung, what happened to the Old Dragon and he confided to us, "You're eating him!" whereupon he burst into peals of laughter and ran off into the kitchen.

  Anyway, the place had a small bar and cocktail area, which was still full of people and cigarette smoke. We found two chairs at a cocktail table. The clientele looked like they were heavies in a Bruce Lee movie without subtitles.

  Kate looked around and said, "You know this place?"

  "I used to come here."

  "Everyone's speaking Chinese."

  "I'm not. You're not."

  "Everyone else."

  "I think they're Chinese."

  "You're a wise-ass."

  "Thank you."

  A cocktail waitress came over, but I didn't know her. She was friendly, smiley, and informed us that the kitchen was still open. I ordered dim sum and Scotch for the table.

  Kate asked me, "What's dim sum? Straight answer."

  "Like . . . appetizers. Dumplings and stuff. Goes good with Scotch whiskey."

  Kate looked around again and said, "This is exotic."

  "They don't think so."

  "Sometimes I feel like a real hick here."

  "How long have you been here?"

  "Eight months."

  The drinks came, we chatted, more drinks came, I yawned. The dim sum came, and Kate seemed to enjoy it. A third round of drinks came, and my eyes were getting crossed. Kate seemed alert and awake.

  I asked the waitress to call us a taxi, and I paid the tab. We went outside on to Pell Street and the cool air felt good. While we waited for the cab, I asked her, "Where do you live?"

  "On East Eighty-sixth Street. That's supposed to be a good neighborhood."

  "It's a fine neighborhood."

  "I took the apartment from the guy I replaced. He went to Dallas. I heard from him. He says he sort of misses New York, but he's happy in Dallas."

  "And New York is happy he's in Dallas."

  She laughed. "You're funny. George told me you had a New York mouth."

  "Actually, I have my mother's mouth."

  The cab came and we got in. I said to the driver, "Two stops. First on . . . East Eighty-sixth."

  Kate gave the driver the address, and we were off through the tiny streets of Chinatown, then up Bowery.

  We rode mostly in silence, and within twenty minutes were in front of Kate's building, a modern high rise with a doorman. Even if she had a studio apartment, this was a little pricey, her cost-of-living allowance notwithstanding. But in my experience, Wendy Wasp from Wichita would choose a good building in a good neighborhood and cut down on luxuries such as food and clothes.

  So, we stood there a moment on the sidewalk, and she said, "Would you like to come in?"

  New Yorkers say "up," people from the hinterlands say "in." In any case, my heart got the message and began racing. I've been here before. I looked at her and said, "Can I take a rain check?"

  "Sure." She smiled. "See you at five."

  "Maybe a little after five. Like eight."

  She smiled again. "Good night." She turned and the doorman greeted her as he held the door open.

  I watched her move through the lobby, then turned and got into my cab. "East Seventy-second Street," I said and gave him the number.

  The cabbie, a guy with a turban from someplace else, said to me in good English, "Maybe not my business, but I think the lady wanted you to go with her."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah."

  I stared out the window as we drove down Second Avenue. Strange day. Tomorrow would be totally unpleasant and tense. Then again, maybe there wouldn't be any tomorrow, or any day after. I considered telling the cabbie to turn around and go back. I said to the cabbie, apropos of his turban, "Are you a genie?"

  He laughed. "Yeah. And this is a magic carpet, and you get three wishes."

  "Okay." I made three wishes to myself, but the genie said, "You have to tell me, or I can't make them come true."

  So I told him, "Wo
rld peace, inner peace, and an understanding of women."

  "The first two are no problem." He laughed again. "If you get the last one, give me a call."

  We got to my condo, and I overtipped the genie, who advised me, "Ask her out again."

  He drove off.

  Alfred was still on duty for some reason. I can never figure out these doormen's schedules, which are more erratic than mine. Alfred greeted me, "Good evening, Mr. Corey. Did you have a good day?"

  "I had an interesting day, Alfred."

  I took the elevator up to the twentieth floor, opened my door, and went inside, taking minimal precautions, and, in fact, hoping I'd be knocked over the head like in the movies and wake up next month.

  I didn't check my answering machine, but got undressed and fell into bed. I thought I was exhausted, but I discovered that I was wound up like a clock spring.

  I stared at the ceiling, contemplating life and death, love and hate, fate and chance, fear and bravery, and stuff like that. I thought about Kate and Ted, Jack and George, the people in blue suits, a genie in a bottle, and finally Nick Monti and Nancy Tate, both of whom I was going to miss. And Meg, the duty officer, who I didn't know, but whose family and friends would miss her. I thought about Asad Khalil, and I wondered if I would have the opportunity to send him straight to hell.

  I got to sleep, but I had one nightmare after the other. The days and nights were becoming the same.

  CHAPTER 35

  Asad Khalil found himself on a busy road lined with motels, car rentals, and fast food restaurants. A huge aircraft was landing at the nearby airport.

  They had told him in Tripoli to find a motel near the Jacksonville International Airport, where neither his appearance nor his license plate would attract attention.

  He saw a pleasant-looking place called Sheraton, a name he recognized from Europe, and he pulled into the parking lot, then drove up to the sign that said MOTOR INN—REGISTRATION.

  He straightened his tie, brushed his hair with his fingers, put on his glasses, and went inside.

  The young woman behind the registration counter smiled and said, "Good evening."

  He smiled and returned the greeting. He could see that there were passageways in the lobby, and one of them said BAR-LOUNGE-RESTAURANT. He heard music and laughter coming through the door.

  He said to the woman, "I would like a room for one night, please."

  "Yes, sir. Standard or deluxe?"

  "Deluxe."

  She gave him a registration form and pen and said, "How would you like to pay for that, sir?"

  "American Express." He took out his wallet and handed her the credit card as he filled out the registration form.

  Boris had told him that the better the establishment, the fewer problems there would be, especially if he used the credit card. He hadn't wanted to leave a paper trail, but Boris assured him that if he used the card sparingly, it would be safe.

  The woman handed him a credit card slip with the impression of his card on it and gave him back his American Express card. He signed the slip and pocketed his card.

  Khalil completed the registration form, leaving blank the spaces concerning his vehicle, which they had told him in Tripoli he could ignore in the finer establishments. He was also told that, unlike Europe, there was no space for his passport number on the registration form, and the clerk would not even ask to see it. Apparently, it was an insult to be taken for a foreigner, no matter how foreign one looked. Or perhaps, as Boris said, "The only passport you need in America is American Express."

  In any case, the desk clerk glanced at his registration form and asked nothing further of him. She said, "Welcome to the Sheraton, Mr . . ."

  "Bay-dear," he pronounced.

  "Mr. Bay-dear. Here's your electronic key card to Room One-Nineteen, ground floor, to your right as you leave the lobby." She went on in a monotone, "This is your guest folder and here's your room number on the folder. The bar and restaurant are right through that door, we have a fitness center and a swimming pool, checkout time is eleven A.M., breakfast is served in the main dining room from six to eleven A.M., room service is available from six A.M. to midnight, the dining room is closing for dinner shortly, the bar and lounge are open until one A.M., and light snacks are available. There is a mini-bar in your room. Would you like a wake-up call?"

  Khalil understood her accent, but barely understood all this useless information. He did understand wake-up calls and said, "Yes, I have a flight at nine A.M., so perhaps six A.M. would be good."

  She was looking at him, openly, unlike a Libyan woman, who avoided eye contact with men. He maintained eye contact with her, as he was told to do to avoid suspicion, but also to see if she showed any hint that she knew who he was. But she seemed completely unaware of his true identity.

  She said, "Yes, sir, wake-up call at six A.M. Would you like express checkout?"

  He had been told to say yes if asked that question, that this type of checkout would mean he did not have to return to the desk. He replied, "Yes, please."

  "A copy of your bill will be placed under your door by seven A.M. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

  "No, thank you."

  "Have a pleasant stay."

  "Thank you." He smiled, took his folder, turned and left the lobby.

  This had gone well, better than the last time he checked into the motel outside of Washington, he reflected, and had to kill the desk clerk. He smiled again.

  Asad Khalil got into his car and drove to the door marked 119 where a parking space sat empty. He retrieved his overnight bag, got out of the car, locked it, and went to the door. He put his keycard into the slot, and the door lock hummed and clicked as a green light came on, reminding him of the Conquistador Club.

  He went inside and closed and bolted the door behind him.

  Khalil inspected the room, closets, and bathroom, which were clean and modern, but perhaps too comfortable for his taste. He preferred austere surroundings, especially for this Jihad. As a religious man once told him, "Allah will hear you as well if you pray in a mosque with a full belly or the desert with an empty belly—but if you want to hear Allah, go hungry to the desert."

  That advice notwithstanding, Khalil was hungry. He'd had very little to eat since the day before he turned himself into the American Embassy in Paris, which was nearly a week ago.

  He glanced at the room service menu, but decided not to invite another look at his face. Very few people had seen him up close, and most of them were dead.

  He opened the mini-bar and found a can of orange juice, a plastic bottle of Vitelle water, a jar of mixed nuts, and a bar of Toblerone chocolate, which he always enjoyed in Europe.

  He sat in the armchair facing the door, still fully dressed with both Clocks in his pockets. He ate and drank slowly.

  As he ate, he thought back to his short stay at the American Embassy in Paris. They had been suspicious of him, but not hostile. A military officer and a man in civilian clothes had initially questioned him, and the next day, two other men—who had identified themselves only as Philip and Peter—had arrived from America, telling him they would escort him safely to Washington. Khalil knew this was a lie on both counts—they would go to New York, not Washington, and neither Philip nor Peter would arrive safely.

  The night before his departure, they had drugged him, as Boutros said they would, and Khalil had allowed that, so as not to arouse suspicion. He wasn't certain what they had done to him while he was drugged, but it was of no importance. He had been drugged by Libyan Intelligence in Tripoli and questioned, to see if he was able to withstand the effects of these so-called truth drugs. He had passed this test with no problems.

  He had been told that the Americans would probably not subject him to a lie detector test in the embassy—the diplomats wanted him out of the embassy as soon as possible. But if asked to take such a test, he should refuse and demand to go to America or to be released. In any case, the Americans had acted predictably and gotten
him out of the embassy and out of Paris as quickly as possible.

  As Malik had said, "You are wanted for questioning by the French, the Germans, the Italians, and the British. The Americans know this and want you for themselves only. They will get you out of Europe as soon as possible. They almost always take the most sensitive cases to New York, so they can deny that they are holding a defector or a spy in Washington. There are, I think, other psychological and perhaps practical reasons why they go to New York. Eventually, they intend to take you to Washington—but I think you can get there without their help."

  Everyone in the room had laughed at Malik's humor. Malik was very eloquent, and also used humor to make his point. Khalil did not always appreciate the humor of Malik or Boris, but the humor was at the expense of the Americans or the Europeans, so he tolerated it.

  Malik had also said, "If, however, our friend who works for Trans-Continental Airlines in Paris informs us that you are going to Washington, then Haddad, your traveling companion, who is in need of oxygen, will be on that flight. The procedures at Dulles Airport will be the same—the aircraft will be towed to a security area, and you will proceed as though you are in New York." Malik had given him a rendezvous point at Dulles Airport where he would meet his taxi and driver, who would take him to his rental car, and from there—after silencing the driver—he would stay in a motel until Sunday morning, then go into the city and visit General Waycliff before or after church.

  Asad Khalil had been impressed with the thoroughness and cleverness of his intelligence service. They had thought of everything, and they had alternate plans if the Americans changed their methods of operation. More importantly, his Libyan operation officers had stressed to him that even the best of plans could not be carried out without a true Islamic freedom fighter, such as Asad Khalil, nor without the help of Allah.

  Boris, of course, had told him that the plan was mostly Boris', and that Allah had nothing to do with the plan or its success. But Boris had agreed that Asad Khalil was an exceptional agent. In fact, Boris had said to the Libyan Intelligence officers, "If you had more men like Asad Khalil, you wouldn't fail so much."

  Boris was digging his own grave with his mouth, Khalil reflected, but he was fairly certain that at some point Boris knew this, which was why he was drunk so often.