Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2]

by Lions Game(Lit)

  Koenig remarked dryly, "Washington will appreciate your restraint."

  Gabriel said to Jack, "Most of these people come from countries where police beatings are used before the first question is asked. The people we're talking to get confused if you don't at least get a little physical with them."

  Koenig cleared his throat and said, "I don't think we need to hear that. In any case, Sergeant, we don't—"

  Sergeant Haytham interrupted, "We've got over three hundred corpses lying in city and hospital morgues. And we don't know how many more dead are yet to come. I don't want one more corpse on my watch."

  Koenig considered a moment, but with the hidden microphone in mind, said nothing.

  Sergeant Gabriel Haytham sat.

  There was a stillness in the room. Everyone probably had the same thought, which was that Sergeant Gabriel Haytham could get away with some rough stuff regarding his co-religionists. This, of course, may have been one of the reasons that Sergeant Haytham had been picked for his job. Also, he was good at what he did. Most of the successes of the ATTF were the result of the NYPD stakeout guys. All the other stuff—walk-in informants, foreign intelligence sources, phone tips, convicted snitches, and such—didn't get as much information as the guys out on the bricks.

  Port Authority Captain Wydrzynski got up and informed us, "All the Port Authority police, plus all toll takers and other PA personnel at transportation terminals have been given a photograph of Asad Khalil, plus a memo explaining that this fugitive is now the most wanted man in America.

  We tried to play down the Flight One-Seven-Five connection—as per orders—but the word is out."

  Captain Wydrzynski went on a bit. This was one of those cases where the Port Authority police played a big role. Fugitives on the run would eventually cross the path of a ticket agent, or a toll taker, or a Port Authority cop at a bus terminal or airport. Therefore, it was important that these people were up and running, and motivated.

  As for Henry Wydrzynski, I didn't know the guy, but—well, okay, here's the joke. This Polish guy goes into the optometrist's office, and the optometrist says to the guy, "Can you read that chart?" And the guy says, "Sure, I know all those guys."

  Anyway, though I didn't know Captain Wydrzynski, I knew that like most Port Authority cops, he had a little attitude. What they wanted was recognition and respect, so most smart NYPD, like me, gave it to them. They were good, they were helpful, and they were useful. If you messed with them, they'd find a way to screw you big-time, like putting a thousand bucks charge on your E-Z Pass or something.

  Wydrzynski was a big guy in an ill-fitting suit, like seven pounds of Polish sausage stuffed into a five-pound casing. He also seemed to lack any charm or diplomacy, and I liked that.

  Jack Koenig asked Captain Eye-Chart, "When was the photo of Khalil in the hands of your people?"

  Captain Wydrzynski replied, "We had hundreds of these photos made up as soon as we could. As each batch was copied, we sent patrol cars out to the bridges, tunnels, airports, bus stations, and so forth. Also, we faxed photos to every place that has a fax machine, and we did the same over the Internet." He looked around the room and said, "I'd guess that by nine P.M. Saturday, everybody in our command had a copy of Khalil's photo. Sooner, in some cases. But I gotta tell you, the quality of the photo sucked."

  Captain Stein said, "So, conceivably, Asad Khalil could have boarded a flight, or taken a bus, or crossed a bridge or tunnel before nine P.M., and not been noticed."

  "That's right," Wydrzynski replied. He added, "We did get the word and photo out to the airports first, but if the fugitive was quick, he could have boarded a flight—especially at JFK where he already was."

  No one had any comment on that.

  Captain Wydrzynski continued, "I've got over a hundred detectives out there trying to find out if this guy left the greater New York, New Jersey metropolitan area by way of a Port Authority facility. But you know, there're sixteen million people in New York metro, and if this guy had a disguise or phony ID, or an accomplice, or whatever, he could have slipped out. This is not a police state."

  Again, no one said anything for a few seconds, then Koenig inquired, "How about the piers?"

  "Yeah," Wydrzynski said. "On the off-chance that this guy had a ticket for a slow boat to Arabia, my office notified Customs and Immigration people at all the cruise line piers, plus piers where cargo and private ships are docked. I sent detectives around with photo packs, too. But so far, no Khalil. We'll keep the piers under the eye."

  Everyone asked Wydrzynski questions, and it was clear that this kid brother agency was all of a sudden important. Wydrzynski managed to mention the fact that one of the dead, Andy McGill, was a Port Authority cop, and though his men needed no motivation other than patriotism and professionalism, McGill's death had hit the PA cops hard.

  Wydrzynski got tired of being put on the spot and turned the tables a little by saying, "You know, I think that Asad Khalil's photo should have been on every television station within half an hour of the crime. I know there were other considerations, but unless we go completely public with this thing, this guy is going to get away."

  Jack Koenig said, "There is a high likelihood that he's already gone. In fact, he probably took the first Mideast carrier out of JFK before the bodies were cold. Washington believes that, and therefore made the decision that we would keep this within the law enforcement community until the public could be fully apprised of the nature of the Trans-Continental tragedy."

  Kate spoke up and said, "I agree with Captain Wydrzynski. There was no reason to hide these facts other than to cover our own . . . whatever."

  Captain Stein also agreed and said, "I think Washington panicked and made the wrong decision. We went along with it, and now we're trying to find a guy who has a two-day head start."

  Koenig tried to spin this a little and said, "Well, Khalil's photo is out to the media now. But the point is moot if Khalil flew out quickly." Koenig looked at some papers in front of him and said, "There were four flights leaving JFK that he could have made before the Port Authority police were alerted." He rattled off the names of four Mideastern carriers and their departure times. He added, "And of course there were also other overseas flights as well as some domestic and Caribbean flights that wouldn't have required a passport to board, where any kind of photo ID would have been sufficient."

  Koenig concluded with, "Of course, we had people on the other end—Los Angeles and the Caribbean and so forth, waiting for the aircraft. But no one fitting his description deplaned."

  We all mulled that over. I saw Kate looking at me, which I guess meant she wanted me to stick my neck out. I'm only here on a contract anyway, so I said, "I think Khalil is in New York. If he's not in New York, then he's someplace else in this country."

  Captain Stein asked me, "Why do you think that?"

  "Because he's not finished."

  "Okay," Stein asked, "what is it that he needs to finish?"

  "I have no idea."

  "Well," said Stein, "he made a hell of a good start."

  "And that's all it is," I replied. "There's more to come."

  Captain Stein, like me, sometimes lapses into station house speech and commented, "I fucking well hope not."

  I was about to reply, but Mr. CIA spoke for the first time and asked me, "Why are you so certain that Asad Khalil is still in this country?"

  I looked at Mr. Harris, who was staring at me. I considered several replies, all of them starting and ending with "Fuck you," but then I decided to give Mr. Harris the benefit of the doubt and treat him with courtesy. I said, "Well, sir, I just have this gut feeling, based on Asad Khalil's personality type, that he is the sort of man who doesn't quit while he's ahead. He only quits when he's finished, and he's not finished. How do I know that, you ask? Well, I was thinking that a guy like this could have continued to cause damage to American interests abroad, and get away with it like he has for years. But instead, he decided to come here, to Ameri
ca, and cause more damage. So, did he just stop by for an hour or so? Was this a Seagull Mission?"

  I looked around at the uninitiated, and explained, "That's where a guy flies in, shits on everybody, then flies out."

  A few people chuckled, and I continued, "No, this was not a Seagull Mission. It was a . . . well, a Dracula mission."

  I seemed to have everyone's attention, so I continued. "Count Dracula could have sucked blood in Transylvania for three hundred years and kept getting away with it. But, no, he wants to sail to England. Right? But why? To suck the blood of the ship's crew? No. There was something in England that the Count wanted. Right? Well, what did he want? He wanted this babe—the one he saw in Jonathan Barker's photo. Right? What was her name? Anyway, he has the hots for the babe, and the babe is in England. You follow? Likewise, Khalil didn't come here to kill everybody on that plane or everybody in the Conquistador Club. Those people were just appetizers, a little blood sucking before he got to the main meal. All we have to do is to identify and locate the babe—or Khalil's equivalent—and we've got him. You follow?"

  There was this long silence in the room, and some people, who'd been staring at me, turned away. I thought that maybe Koenig or Stein was going to put me on medical leave or something. Kate was staring down at her pad.

  Finally, Edward Harris, gentleman that he was, said to me, "Thank you, Mr. Corey. That was an interesting analysis. Analogy. Whatever."

  A few people chuckled.

  I said, "I have a ten-dollar bet with Ted Nash that I'm right. You wanna bet?"

  Harris looked like he wanted to leave, but he was a good sport and said, "Sure. Make it twenty."

  "You're on. Give Mr. Koenig a twenty."

  Harris hesitated, then pulled a twenty out of his wallet and slid it to Koenig, who pocketed it.

  I passed a twenty down the table.

  Interagency meetings can really be boring, but not when I'm there. I mean, I hate bureaucrats who are so colorless and careful that you couldn't even remember them an hour after the meeting. Aside from that, I wanted each and every person in that room to remember that we were there on the assumption that Khalil might still be in the country. As soon as they started to believe he was gone, they'd get lazy and sloppy, and let the overseas guys do the work. Sometimes you've got to be a little weird to make the point. I'm good at weird.

  In fact, Koenig, who was not a fool, said, "Thank you, Mr. Corey, for that persuasive argument. I think there's a fifty-fifty chance you're right."

  Kate was looking up from her pad now and said, "Actually, I think Mr. Corey is right." She glanced at me, , and our eyes met for half a second.

  If we'd slept together, my face would have turned red, but no one in that room—all of them trained face readers—could detect an ounce of post-coital complicity. Boy, I really made the right move last night. Really. Right?

  Captain Stein broke the silence and said to Edward Harris, "Is there anything you'd like to share with us?"

  Harris shook his head and said, "I was recently assigned to this case, and I haven't yet been briefed. You all know more than I do."

  Everyone had the exact same simultaneous thought, which was "Bullshit." But no one said anything.

  Harris did say to me, however, "The lady's name was Mina."

  "Right. It was on the tip of my tongue."

  So, we all chatted for another ten or fifteen minutes, then Koenig glanced at his watch and said, "Last but not least, we'll hear from Alan."

  Special Agent Alan Parker stood. He's kind of short for his age, unless maybe he really is thirteen. Alan said, "Let me be very frank—"

  Everyone groaned.

  Alan seemed confused, then got it and chuckled. He began again, "Let me . . . well, first of all, the people in Washington, who wanted to manage the flow of information—"

  Captain Stein interrupted and said, "Speak English."

  "What? Oh . . . okay . . . the people who wanted to keep a lid on this—"

  "Who is that?" Stein demanded.

  "Who? Well . . . some people in the administration."

  "Like who?"

  "I don't know. Really. But I guess the National Security Council. Not the FBI."

  Captain Stein, who knows about these things, pointed out, "The Director of the FBI is a member of the National Security Council, Alan."

  "Really? Anyway, whoever these people are have decided that it's time to begin full disclosure. Not all at once, but within the next seventy-two hours. Like a third of what we know each day, for the next three days."

  Captain Stein, who has a sarcastic streak, inquired, "Like nouns today, verbs tomorrow, and everything else on Wednesday?"

  Alan forced a chuckle and said, "No, but I have a three-part news release, and I'll pass out the first part to everyone today."

  Stein said, "We want it all within the next ten minutes. Continue."

  Alan said, "Please understand that I don't make the news, and I don't decide which facts are made public. I just do what I'm told. But I am the clearinghouse for news items, so I'd appreciate it if people didn't give interviews or hold press conferences without first checking with my office." He further advised us, "It's very important that the media and the public are kept informed, but it's more important that they only know what we want them to know."

  Alan didn't seem to see any contradiction in that statement, which was scary.

  Anyway, Alan was babbling on about the importance of news as another weapon in our arsenal and so forth, and I thought he was going to say something about using me and Kate as bait, or about Gadhafi laying the wood to Asad's mommy and putting that out to the press, but he didn't touch on any of that. Instead, he told anecdotal stories about how leaked news got people killed, tipped off suspects, ruined operations, and caused all sorts of problems including obesity, impotence, and bad breath.

  Alan concluded with, "It's true that the public has a right to know, but it's not true that we have a duty to tell them anything."

  He sat.

  No one seemed certain they understood what Alan was saying, so to clarify, Jack Koenig said, "No one should speak to the press." He added, however, "This afternoon, there will be a joint press conference of the NYPD and the FBI, followed by another joint press conference that will include the Governor of New York, the Mayor of New York City, the NYPD Commissioner, and others. Someone, at some point, in some manner, will announce what a lot of people already know or suspect, which is that Flight One-Seven-Five was the subject of an international terrorist attack. The President and members of the National Security Council will go on TV tonight and announce the same thing. There will be a media feeding frenzy for a few days, and your respective offices will get many phone calls. Please refer everyone to Alan, who gets paid to talk to the press."

  Koenig then reminded everyone that there was a million-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of Asad Khalil, plus federal money available for buying information.

  We tidied up a few loose ends and Jack Koenig concluded, "I realize that interagency cooperation is challenging, but if ever there was an occasion for everyone to pull together, to share information, and to show goodwill, this is the occasion. When we catch this guy, I assure you, there'll be enough credit to go around."

  I heard NYPD Chief of Detectives Robert Moody mumble something like, "There's a first."

  Captain David Stein stood and said, "We don't want to find out later that we had a tip on this guy that got lost in the bureaucracy, like what happened with the Trade Center bombing. Remember, the ATTF is the clearinghouse for all information. Remember, too, every law enforcement agency in this country, Canada, and Mexico has the particulars on this guy, and every tip will be forwarded here. Plus, now that Khalil's face is on TV, we can count on a couple hundred million citizens to be on the lookout. So, if this guy is still on this continent, we might get lucky."

  I thought of Police Chief Corn Pone in Hominy Grits, Georgia. I imagined getting a direct phone call from him saying
, "Mornin', John. I hear y'all been lookin' for this Ay-rab, Khalil what's-his-name. Well, John, we got this feller right here in the pokey, and we'll hold him for you 'till you get here. Hurry on down—this boy won't eat pork, and he's starvin' to death."

  Stein said to me, "Something funny, Detective?"

  "No, sir. My mind was wandering."

  "Yeah? Tell us about where it wandered to."

  "Well . . ."

  "Let's hear it, Mr. Corey."

  So, rather than share my stupid Police Chief Corn Pone reverie, which is maybe funny only to me, I quickly came up with a joke apropos to the meeting. I said, "Okay . . . The Attorney General wants to find out who's the best law enforcement agency—the FBI, the CIA, or the NYPD. Okay? So she calls a group from each organization to meet her outside D.C., and she lets a rabbit loose in the woods, and says to the FBI guys, 'Okay, go find the rabbit.'" I looked at my audience, who were wearing neutral expressions, except for Mike O'Leary, who was smiling in anticipation.

  I continued, "The FBI guys go in and two hours later, they come out without the rabbit, but of course call a big press conference and they say, 'We lab-tested every twig and leaf in the woods, we questioned two hundred witnesses, and we have concluded that the rabbit broke no federal laws, and we let him go.' The Attorney General says, 'Bullshit. You never found the rabbit.' So then the CIA guys go in"—I glanced at Mr. Harris—"and an hour later, they also come out without the rabbit, but they say, 'The FBI was wrong. We found the rabbit, and he confessed to a conspiracy. We debriefed the rabbit, and we turned the rabbit around, and he is now a double agent working for us.' The Attorney General says, 'Bullshit. You never found the rabbit.' So then the NYPD guys go in and fifteen minutes later, this bear comes stumbling out of the woods, and the bear has taken a really bad beating, and the bear throws his arms up in the air and yells out, All right! I'm a rabbit! I'm a rabbit!'"