Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2]

by Lions Game(Lit)

  He nodded. "So . . . there is no . . . record of our arrival?" "Nope. Why do you ask?" "In my country, there is a record of all aircraft." "This is a private airfield." She began a slow, banking turn. She said, "It's a guard-gate community. You know? If you drive in, the Nazi at the gate wants to strip search you unless you've been cleared by one of the residents inside. Even then, you get the once-over and the third degree."

  Khalil nodded. He knew this, which was why he was arriving by air.

  Stacy Moll went on, "I used to drive here once in a while to see Mr. Wonderful, and the idiot sometimes forgot to tell the Nazi I was coming. You know? I mean, Mr. Wonderful is going to get lai—he's going to . . . anyway, you'd think he'd remember I was coming. Right? So, whenever I could, I'd just fly in. I mean, you could be an ax murderer, but if you have an airplane, you fly right in. Maybe they should put in anti-aircraft guns. You know? And you need a password for the automated voice. Friend or foe? If you don't have the password, they open fire and blow you out of the sky." She laughed. "Someday I'm going to drop a bomb on Mr. Wonderful's fricking house. Maybe right in his pool when he's swimming in the raw. Him and his newest. Men. God, they piss me off. Can't live with 'em, can't live without them. You married?"

  "No."

  She didn't respond to that, but said, "See the country club there? Golf course, tennis courts, private hangars right next to some of the houses, swimming pools—these twits have themselves a good deal. You know? See that big yellow house there? Look. That belongs to a famous movie star who likes to fly his own jet. I'll bet the good old boys here don't like him much, but I'll bet the ladies do. See that big white house with the pool? That belongs to a New York real estate tycoon who owns a Citation twin-engine jet. I met him once. Nice guy. He's Jewish. The boys probably like him about as much as they like the movie star. I'm looking for this other house . . . guy named . . . can't remember, but he's a US Airways pilot, wrote a couple of airplane novels . . . can't remember the names . . . he was a friend of Mr. Wonderful. Wanted to put me in one of his books. What was that going to cost me? Jeez. Men."

  Khalil looked at the expanse of large houses below, the palm trees, the swimming pools, the green lawns, and the aircraft parked near some of the homes. The man who may have murdered his family was down there, waiting for him with a smile and a beer. Khalil could almost taste his blood. Stacy said, "Okay, everybody shut up for the next few seconds." The Piper drifted down toward a runway marked 23, the engine became quieter, the runway seemed to rise upward, and the aircraft touched down gently. "Great landing." She laughed, then slowed the aircraft down quickly with the wheel brakes. "I had a rough landing last week in a bad crosswind, and the wise-ass customer asked me, 'Did we land, or were we shot down?'" She laughed again.

  They stopped adjacent to the center taxiway, then exited the runway.

  Stacy asked, "Where's this guy going to meet you?" "At his home. He lives on a taxiway." "Oh, yeah? Big bucks. You know where to go?" Khalil reached into his black bag and pulled out a sheet of paper on which was a computer-generated map titled

  COURTESY MAP—SPRUCE CREEK, FLORIDA.

  Stacy took it from him and glanced at it. "Okay . . . what's this guy's address?"

  "It is Yankee Taxiway. At the very far end." "That's not far from where Mr. Wonderful lives. Okay . . . let's make like a taxi cab." She reached across her passenger, popped open the door to vent the cockpit, which was already becoming too warm, then glanced at the map in her lap and began taxiing the Piper. She said, "Okay, here's the fueling area and maintenance hangars of Spruce Creek Aviation . . . here's Beech Boulevard . . ." She taxied onto a wide concrete road and said, "Some of these things are taxi-ways only, some are for vehicles only, and some are for planes and vehicles. Like I want to share a road with some idiot's SUV—right? Keep an eye out for golf carts. The golfers are stupider than the SUV owners . . . okay, here's Cessna Boulevard . . . clever names, right?" She turned left on Cessna, then right on Tango Taxiway, then left on Tango East. She took off her sunglasses and said, "Look at these houses."

  Khalil was doing just that. Passing on both sides of them were the backs of expensive taxiway homes, with large private hangars, enclosed swimming pools, and palm trees, which reminded him of his homeland. He said, "There are many palm trees here, but none in Jacksonville."

  "Oh, they don't grow here naturally. These idiots bring them up from south Florida. You know? This is north Florida, but they think they need to have palm trees around them. I'm surprised they don't keep flamingos chained in the yard."

  Khalil didn't reply, but once again thought of Paul Grey, whom he would be meeting in a few short minutes. Indeed, this murderer had gone to Paradise before he died, while Asad Khalil had lived in hell. Soon this situation would be reversed.

  Stacy Moll said, "Okay, here's Mike Taxiway . . ." She turned the Piper right onto the narrow asphalt strip.

  A number of the hangar doors were open, and Khalil noticed many types of aircraft—small single-engine aircraft, such as he was in, strange aircraft with one wing above another, and medium-sized jet aircraft. He asked, "Do these aircraft have any military purpose?"

  She laughed. "No, these are boys' toys. Understand? I fly to make a living. Most of these clowns fly just to give themselves something to do, or to impress their friends. Hey, I'm going to school for jet training. Big bucks, but some guy is paying for it . . . wants me to be his corporate jet pilot. You know? Some of the big shots want military guys, like I said, but some of them want . . . like a toy inside the toy. Get it?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Where you from?"

  "Greece."

  "Yeah? I thought the Greek millionaires . . . anyway, here we are—Yankee Taxiway." She veered to the right, and the taxiway ended at a concrete apron attached to a large hangar. On the hangar wall was a small sign that said PAUL GREY.

  The hangar was open, revealing a twin-engine aircraft, a Mercedes-Benz convertible, a staircase that led to a loft, and a golf cart. She said, "This guy has all the toys. That's a Beech Baron, a Model 58, and it looks pretty new. Big buckeroos. You selling him something?"

  "Yes. The vases."

  "Yeah? They expensive?"

  "Very."

  "Good. He's got the dough. The money. Hey, is this guy married?"

  "No, he is not."

  "Ask him if he needs a co-pilot." She laughed.

  She shut down the Piper's engine. "You've got to get out first, unless you want me crawling over your lap." She laughed. "Just take it nice and easy. I'll hold your bag." She took the bag off his lap.

  He exited the aircraft onto the skidroof section of the wing. She handed the bag to him, and he placed it on the wing. Khalil stepped off the aft end of the Piper's wing and dropped onto the concrete. He turned and retrieved his bag from the wing.

  Stacy followed him and jumped off the low wing onto the concrete, but lost her balance and found herself stumbling forward into her passenger. "Oops." She bumped into Khalil and held his shoulder to steady herself. His sunglasses slipped off, and Asad Khalil stood less than six inches from Stacy Moll, face-to-face. She looked into his eyes, and he stared back at her.

  Finally, she smiled and said, "Sorry."

  Khalil stooped down, retrieved his sunglasses, and put them on.

  She took her cigarettes out of her pocket and lit one. She said, "I'll wait here in the hangar where it's shady. I'm going to help myself to something to drink in his refrigerator and use the bathroom in the hangar. They all have toilets and refrigerators. Sometimes kitchens and offices. So when the missus kicks their butts out, they don't have far to go." She laughed. "Tell this guy I'm taking a Coke. I'll leave a buck."

  "Yes."

  She said, "Hey, Mr. Wonderful is a short walk from here. Maybe I should go say hello."

  "Perhaps you should stay here." He added, "This should not take long."

  "Yeah. Just kidding. I'd probably put a crimp in his fuel line if he wasn't around."

  Khalil tu
rned toward the concrete footpath that led toward the house.

  She called out, "Good luck. Squeeze him hard. Make him pay in blood."

  Khalil looked over his shoulder. "Excuse me?"

  "Means make him pay a lot."

  "Yes. I will make him pay in blood."

  He followed the path through some shrubbery until it came to a screen door that led to a large screened-in pool. He tried the door and it was open. He entered the pool area, noting the lounge chairs, a small serving counter, and a flotation device in the pool. There was another door, and he stepped up to it. Inside, he could see a large kitchen area. He looked at his watch and saw that it was nine-ten.

  He pushed the doorbell button and waited. Birds sang in the nearby trees, some sort of creature made a croaking sound, and a small aircraft circled overhead.

  After a full minute, a man dressed in tan pants and a blue shirt came to the door and looked at him through the glass.

  Khalil smiled.

  The man opened the door and said, "Colonel Hurok?"

  "Yes. Captain Grey?"

  "Yes, sir. Just Mister Grey. Call me Paul. Come on in."

  Asad Khalil entered the large kitchen of Mr. Paul Grey. The house was air-conditioned, but not uncomfortably cold.

  Paul Grey said, "Can I take that bag?"

  "No need."

  Paul Grey glanced at his wall clock and said, "You're a little early, but no problem. I'm all set."

  "Good."

  "How did you get to the house?"

  "I instructed my pilot to use the taxiways."

  "Oh . . . how did you know what taxiways to use?"

  "Mr. Grey, there is little that my organization does not know about you. That is why I am here. You have been chosen."

  "Okay. Sounds good to me. How about a beer?"

  "Just bottled water, please."

  Khalil watched Paul Grey as he retrieved a container of juice and a plastic bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator, then went to the cupboard for two glasses. Paul Grey was not tall, but he seemed to be in excellent physical condition. His skin was as brown as a Berber's, and like General Waycliff, his hair was gray, but his face was not old.

  Paul Grey asked, "Where's your pilot?"

  "She is sheltering from the sun in your hangar. She asked if it was permissible to use your toilet there, and to have something to drink."

  "Sure. No problem. You got a lady pilot?"

  "Yes."

  "Maybe she wants to come in and look at this demonstration. It's awesome."

  "No. As I said, we must be discreet."

  "Of course. Sorry."

  Khalil added, "I told her I was a Greek selling you antique Greek vases." He hefted his black bag and smiled.

  Paul Grey smiled back and said, "Good cover. I guess you could be Greek."

  "Why not?"

  Grey handed Khalil a glass of mineral water.

  Khalil said, "No glass." He explained, "I am kosher. No offense, but I cannot use non-kosher items. Sorry."

  "Not a problem." Grey retrieved another plastic bottle of mineral water and gave it to his guest.

  Khalil took it and said, "Also, I have a condition of my eyes and must wear these dark glasses."

  Grey held up his glass of orange juice and said, "Welcome, Colonel Hurok."

  They touched glass to bottle and drank. Grey said, "Well, come on in to my war room, Colonel, and we can get started."

  Khalil followed Paul Grey through the rambling house. Khalil commented, "A very beautiful home."

  "Thank you. I was lucky enough to buy during a slight downturn in the market—I only had to pay twice what it was worth." Grey laughed.

  They entered a large room, and Paul Grey slid the pocket door closed behind them. "No one will disturb us."

  "There is someone in the house?"

  "Only the cleaning lady. She won't bother us in here."

  Khalil looked around the large room, which seemed to be a combination of a sitting room and an office. Everything appeared to be expensive—the plush carpet, the wood furniture, the electronics against the far wall. He saw four computer screens, with keyboards and other controls, in front of each screen.

  Paul Grey said, "Let me take that bag for you."

  Khalil said, "I'll put this down with my water."

  Paul Grey indicated a low coffee table, on which was a newspaper. Grey and Khalil put their drinks down on the table, and Khalil placed his bag on the floor, then said, "Do you mind if I look around the room?"

  "Not at all."

  Khalil moved to a wall on which hung photographs and paintings of many different aircraft, including a realistic painting of an F-lll fighter jet, which Khalil studied.

  Paul Grey said, "I had that done from a photograph. I flew F-llls for a lot of years."

  "Yes, I know that."

  Paul Grey didn't reply.

  Khalil studied a wall that displayed many citations, letters of commendation, and a framed, glass-enclosed case in which nine military medals were mounted.

  Grey said, "I received many of those medals for my part in the Gulf War. But I guess you know that, too."

  "Yes. And my government appreciates your service on our behalf."

  Khalil walked to a shelf unit that held books and plastic models of various aircraft. Paul Grey came up beside him and took a book off the shelf. "Here—you'll appreciate this one. It was written by General Gideon Shaudar. He signed it for me."

  Khalil took the book, which had a fighter aircraft on the cover, and saw that it was in Hebrew.

  Paul Grey said, "Look at the inscription."

  Asad Khalil opened the book to the back, which, as he knew, was the beginning of the book in Hebrew as it was in Arabic, and saw that the inscription was in English, but there were also Hebrew characters, which he could not read.

  Paul Grey said, "Finally, someone who can translate the Hebrew for me."

  Asad Khalil stared at the Hebrew writing and said, "It is actually an Arabic proverb, which we Israelis are also fond of—'He who is the enemy of my enemy is my friend.'" Khalil handed the book back to Grey and remarked, "Very appropriate."

  Paul Grey shelved the book and said, "Let's sit a minute before we start." He motioned Khalil to an upholstered chair beside the coffee table. Khalil sat and Paul Grey sat opposite him.

  Paul Grey sipped on his orange juice. Khalil drank from his bottle of water. Grey said, "Please understand, Colonel, that the software demonstration I'm going to show you could be considered classified material. But as I understand it, I can show it to a representative of a friendly government. But when it comes to the question of purchasing it, then we have to get clearance."

  "I understand that. My people are already working on that." He added, "I appreciate the security. We would not want this software to fall into the hands of . . . let's say, our mutual enemies." He smiled.

  Paul Grey returned the smile and said, "If you mean certain Mideastern nations, I doubt they'd be able to put this to any practical use. To be honest with you, Colonel, those people don't have the brains they were born with."

  Khalil smiled again and said, "Never underestimate an enemy."

  "I try not to, but if you'd been in my cockpit in the Gulf, you'd think you were flying against a bunch of crop dusters." He added, "That doesn't bring much credit on me, but I'm talking to a pro, so I'll be honest."

  Khalil replied, "As my colleagues told you, though I am the embassy air attache officer, I'm afraid I have no combat experience in attack aircraft. My area of expertise is training and operations, so I cannot regale you with any heroic war stories."

  Grey nodded.

  Khalil regarded his host for a moment. He could have killed him the minute he opened the kitchen door, or any time since then, but the killing would be almost meaningless without some pleasant trifling. Malik had said to him, • "All members of the cat family toy with their captured prey before killing them. Take your time. Savor the moment. It will not come again."

 
; Khalil nodded toward the newspaper on the coffee table and said, "You've read what has been revealed about Flight One-Seven-Five?"

  Grey glanced down at the newspaper. "Yes . . . some heads are going to roll over that. I mean, how the hell did those Libyan clowns pull that off? A bomb on board is one thing—but gas? And then the guy escapes and kills a bunch of Federal agents. I see the hand of Moammar Gadhafi in this."

  "Yes? Perhaps. It's unfortunate that the bomb you dropped on his residence at Al Azziziyah didn't kill him."

  Paul Grey did not reply for a few seconds, then said, "I had no part in that mission, Colonel, and if your intelligence service thinks I did, they're wrong."

  Asad Khalil waved his hand in a placating gesture. "No, no, Captain—I did not mean you, personally. I meant the American Air Force."

  "Oh . . . sorry . . ."

  "However," Khalil continued, "if you were on that mission, then I congratulate you, and thank you on behalf of the Israeli people."

  Paul Grey remained expressionless, then stood and said, "Why don't we move over here and have a look?"

  Khalil stood, took his bag, and followed Paul Grey to the far side of the room where two leather swivel chairs sat facing two screens.

  Paul Grey said, "First, I'll show you a demonstration of the software, just using this joystick and the keyboard. Next, we'll move to those other two chairs where we'll enter the world of virtual reality." He moved to the two more elaborate chairs with no TV screens in front of them. He said, "Here we use computer modeling and simulation to enable a person to interact with an artificial three-dimensional visual and other sensory environments. Are you familiar with this?"

  Khalil did not reply.

  Paul Grey hesitated a moment, then continued, "Virtual reality applications immerse the user in a computer-generated environment that simulates reality through the use of interactive devices which send and receive information. These devices are typically goggles, helmets, gloves, or even body suits. Here I have two helmets with a stereoscopic screen for each eye where you can view animated images of a simulated environment. The illusion of being there—telepresence—is effected by motion sensors that pick up the user's movements and adjust the view on the screens accordingly, usually in real time." Paul Grey looked at his potential customer, but could see no sign of comprehension or non-comprehension behind the sunglasses.