Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2]

by Lions Game(Lit)

  Then Jack Koenig came on and said a few words about the FBI and NYPD coordinating their efforts and so forth, but he didn't mention the Anti-Terrorist Task Force by name.

  Koenig did not mention Peter Gorman or Phil Hundry, but he spoke of the deaths of Nick Monti, Nancy Tate, and Meg Collins, whom he identified as Federal Law enforcement people, and he didn't mention the Conquistador Club, of course. His brief description of their deaths sounded as if they'd been killed in a shootout with the terrorist as he made his escape.

  The tape of the joint FBI/NYPD press conference ended with a barrage of questions from reporters, but everyone of importance seemed to have disappeared, leaving little Alan Parker alone at the podium, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

  The anchorperson then introduced the story of the second press conference at City Hall, and there were snippets of the Mayor, the Governor, and some other politicians, all of whom vowed to do something, though they were vague about what it was they were going to do. More important, they had the opportunity to get on TV.

  Next was some videotape from Washington that featured the Director of the FBI and also the Deputy Director in charge of Counterterrorism, whom we'd met at FBI Headquarters. Everyone made a grim, but optimistic statement.

  The Deputy Director took the opportunity to announce again the one-million-dollar reward for any information that led to the arrest of Asad Khalil. He didn't even say, "conviction," just arrest. For people in the know, this was unusual, and indicated a high degree of anxiety and desperation.

  Anyway, following was a quick scene from the White House where the President made a carefully worded statement that I thought could be used for almost any occasion, including National Library Week.

  I noted that the entire story, including long press conferences, had taken about seven minutes, which is a lot of airtime for network news. I mean, I have this funny skit in my head where an anchorguy reads the TelePrompTer in a monotone, and says, "A meteor is headed toward the earth and will destroy the planet on Wednesday," and then he turns to the sportscaster and says, "Hey, Bill, how about those Mets today?"

  Perhaps I exaggerate, but here was a story of some importance, about which I had firsthand knowledge, and even I couldn't follow the kaleidoscope of images and sound bites.

  But each of the networks promised a special report at eleven-thirty, and these in-depth reports were usually better. The regular news was more like coming attractions.

  The bottom line, though, was that the cat was out of the bag, and Asad Khalil's mug was on the airwaves. This should have been done sooner, but better late than never.

  Kate shut off the TV with the zapper and turned the CD on with the same zapper. Amazing.

  I said, "I want to see tonight's X-Files rerun—this is the one where Mulder and Scully discover that his underwear is an alien life form."

  She didn't reply.

  The Moment had arrived.

  She poured herself another Scotch, and I saw that her hand was actually shaking. She slid across the couch, and I put my arm around her. We sipped Scotch out of the same glass while we listened to sexy Billie Holiday singing "Solitude."

  I cleared my throat and said, "Can we just be friends?"

  "No. I don't even like you."

  "Oh . . ."

  Well, we kissed, and little Johnny became Big Bad John in about two seconds.

  Before I knew it, all our clothes were scattered on the floor and across the coffee table, and we were lying naked on the couch, face-to-face on our sides.

  If the FBI gave out medals for good bodies, Kate Mayfield would get a gold star encrusted with diamonds. I mean, I was too close to see her body, but like most men in these up-close, in-the-dark situations, I had developed the sense of touch of a blind person.

  My hands ran over her thighs and buttocks, between her legs, and across her belly to her breasts. Her skin was smooth and cool, which I like, and her muscles had obviously all been gym-toned.

  My own body, if anyone is interested, can be described as sinewy, but pliable. I once had a washboard tummy, but since I'd caught a slug in my groin area, I'd developed a little flab—sort of like a wet, rolled hand towel on the washboard.

  Anyway, Kate's fingers passed over my right butt and stopped at the hard scar on my lower cheek. "What's that?"

  "Exit wound."

  "Where'd it enter?"

  "Lower abdomen."

  Her hand went to my groin area, and she searched around until she found the spot about three inches north and east of Mount Willie.

  "Oooh . . . that was close."

  "Any closer and we'd just be friends."

  She laughed and embraced me in a hug so tight it squeezed the air out of my bad lung. Jeez—this woman was strong.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was pretty certain that Beth Penrose wouldn't approve of this. I do have a conscience, but Wee Willie Winkie has no conscience whatsoever, so to resolve the conflict, I shut off my main brain and let Willie take over.

  We groped, kissed, hugged, and squeezed for about ten minutes. There's something exquisite about exploring a new naked body—the texture of the skin, the curves, the hills and valleys, the taste and the scent of a woman. I enjoy the foreplay, but Willie gets impatient, so I suggested we find the bedroom.

  She replied, "No, do it to me here."

  No problem. Well . . . a bit of a problem on the couch, but where there's a Willie, there's a way.

  She climbed on top of me and within a heartbeat, we changed the nature of our professional relationship.

  I lay back on the couch while Kate went to the bathroom. I didn't know what kind of contraceptive she used, but I didn't see any cribs or playpens around the apartment, so I figured she had it under control.

  She came back into the living room and turned on the lamp near the couch. She stood looking down at me, and I sat up. I could see her whole body now, and it was indeed exquisite, more full than I'd imagined it on the very few occasions that I'd undressed her in my mind. I also noticed that she was legally blonde, top and bottom, but I figured that.

  She knelt down in front of me and parted my legs. I noticed she had a wet washcloth in her hand, and she polished the rocket a little, which almost caused another launch. She commented, "Not bad for an old guy. You take Viagra?"

  "No, I take saltpeter to keep it down."

  She laughed, then bent over and put her face in my lap. I stroked her hair.

  She picked her head up, and we held hands. She saw the scar on my chest and touched it, then moved her hand around to my back, and her fingers found the exit wound. "This bullet broke the front and back rib."

  I guess FBI ladies know these things. Very clinical. But better than, "Oh, you poor dear, it must have been so painful."

  She continued, "Now I can tell Jack where you were wounded." She laughed, then asked me, "Are you hungry?"

  Yes.

  "Good. I'll scramble some eggs."

  She went into the small kitchen, and I stood, tidying up the strewn clothes.

  She called out, "Don't get dressed."

  "I just wanted to put your bra and panties on for a minute."

  She laughed again.

  I watched her in the open kitchen, moving around in the nude, looking like a goddess performing sacred rituals in the temple.

  I looked through the stack of CDs and found Willie Nelson, my favorite post-coital music.

  Willie sang "Don't Get Around Much Anymore."

  She said, "I like that one."

  I looked up at the books on the shelves. You can usually tell something about a person by what they read. Most of Kate's books were training manuals, the sort of stuff you really have to read to stay on top of things in this business. There were also a lot of true-crime books, books about the FBI, terrorism, abnormal psychology, and that sort of thing. There were no novels, no classics, no poetry, no books of art or photography. This reinforced my original take on Ms. Mayfield as a dedicated professional, a team pl
ayer, a lady who never colored outside the lines.

  But obviously there was another side to this clean-cut cheerleader, and it wasn't very complicated; she liked men and she liked sex. But why did she like me? Maybe she wanted to tweak a few noses among her FBI colleagues by going out with a cop. Maybe she was tired of playing by the unwritten rules and the written directives. Maybe she was into horny. Who knows? A guy could go crazy trying to analyze why he'd been picked as a sexual partner.

  The phone rang. Agents are supposed to have a separate line for official calls, but she didn't even look at the wall phone in the kitchen to see what line was lit up. It rang until her answering machine picked up.

  I said to her, "Can I do anything?"

  "Yes. Go comb your hair and wash the lipstick off your face."

  "Right." I entered the bedroom and noticed that the bed was made. Why do women make the bed?

  Anyway, the bedroom was as sparse as the living room, and I could have been in a motel room. Clearly Kate Mayfield had not made herself at home in Manhattan.

  I went into the bathroom. As neat as the other rooms were, the bathroom looked like someone had been in there with a search warrant. I borrowed a comb from the cluttered vanity and combed my hair, then washed my face and gargled with mouthwash. I looked at myself in the mirror. I had bags under my bloodshot eyes, my skin was a little pale, and the scar on my chest looked white and hairless compared to the rest of my chest. Clearly there were a lot of hard miles on John Corey, and more to come. But my crankshaft was still working, even if my battery was run down.

  Not wanting to stay too long in Mademoiselle's private quarters, I went back into the living room.

  Kate had laid two plates of scrambled eggs and toast on the coffee table and two glasses of orange juice. I sat on the couch, she knelt on the floor opposite me, and we ate. I really was hungry.

  She said, "I've been in New York eight months, and you're the first man I've been with." '

  "I could tell."

  "How about you?"

  "I haven't been with a man in years."

  "Be serious."

  "Well . . . what can I say? I'm seeing someone. You know that."

  "Can we get rid of her?"

  I laughed.

  "I'm serious, John. I don't mind overlapping for a few weeks, but after that I feel like . . . you know."

  I wasn't sure I did, but I said, "I understand completely."

  We looked at each other for a long time. Finally, I realized I had to say something, so I said, "Look, Kate, I think you're just lonely. And busy. I'm not Mr. Right—I'm just Mr. Right Now, so—"

  "Bullshit. I'm not that lonely or that busy. I have men hitting on me all the time. Your friend, Ted Nash, has asked me out ten times."

  "What?" I dropped my fork. "That little turd—"

  "He's not little."

  "He's a turd."

  "No, he isn't."

  "That pisses me off. Did you go out with him?"

  "Just dinner a few times. Interagency cooperation."

  "Damn it, that pisses me off. Why are you laughing?"

  She didn't tell me why she was laughing, but I guess I knew why.

  I watched her, covering her face with her hand while she was trying to swallow scrambled eggs and laugh at the same time. I said, "If you choke, I don't know the Heimlich maneuver."

  This made her laugh more.

  Anyway, I changed the subject and asked her something about what she thought of the press conference.

  She answered, but I wasn't paying attention. I thought about Ted Nash, and about how he'd put the moves on Beth Penrose during the Plum Island case. Well, maybe it was mutual and it didn't amount to much anyway, but I have a low tolerance for competition. Somehow, I think Kate Mayfield figured that out, and might actually be using it on me.

  Next, I thought of Beth Penrose, and to be honest, I was feeling a bit guilty. Whereas Kate Mayfield didn't mind a few weeks overlap in regard to sexual involvements, I'm basically monogamous, preferring one headache at a time—except for a weekend in Atlantic City with these two sisters, but that's another story.

  So, we sat there awhile, our bodies touching, and I picked at my eggs. I haven't had a meal with a woman in the nude in a long time, and I remembered that I used to really enjoy the experience. There's something about food and nudity, eating and sex, that goes together, if you think about it. It's primitive on the one hand, and very sensuous on the other.

  Well, I was on the slippery slope into the abyss of love, companionship and happiness—and you know where that leads. Misery.

  But so what? You gotta go for it. I said to Kate, "I'll call Beth in the morning and tell her it's over."

  "You don't have to do that. I'll do it for you." She laughed again.

  Obviously Kate Mayfield was in a better post-coital mood than I was. I really was conflicted, confused, and a little scared. But I'd get it all sorted out in the morning.

  She said to me, "Business. Tell me more about the informant."

  So I told her again about my interrogation of Fadi Aswad, making me feel less guilty about cutting my workday short for food and sex.

  She listened, taking it all in, then asked, "And you don't think he's a plant?"

  "No. His brother-in-law is dead."

  "Nevertheless, that could all be part of the plan. These people can be ruthless in ways that we can't comprehend."

  I thought about that and asked her, "What would be the purpose of trying to make us think that Asad Khalil got to Perth Amboy by taxi?"

  "So that we think he's on the road, and we stop looking for him in New York City."

  "You're overworking this. If you'd seen Fadi Aswad, you'd know he was telling the truth. Gabe thought so, too, and I trust Gabe's instincts."

  She said, "Fadi told the truth about what he knew. That doesn't prove it was Khalil in the taxi. But if it was, then the Frankfurt murder was a red herring and the Perth Amboy murder was the real thing."

  "That's it." I rarely have brainstorming sessions in the nude with a colleague of the opposite sex, and it's not as enjoyable as it might seem. But I suppose it's better than a long conference table meeting.

  I said, "Well, I saved you from having to spend a few weeks in Europe with Ted Nash."

  "That's why I think you made this whole thing up. To get me back here."

  I smiled.

  She stayed silent a few seconds, then said, "Do you believe in fate?"

  I thought about that. My chance encounter with the two Hispanic gentlemen on West 102nd Street a year ago had set off a chain of events that put me on convalescent leave, then to the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, then to here and now. I don't believe in predestination, fate, chance, or luck. I believe that a combination of free will and random chaos controls our destinies, that the world is sort of like a ladies' garment sale at Loehmann's. In any case, you have to be awake and alert at all times, ready and able to exercise your free will amidst an increasingly chaotic and dangerous environment.

  "John?"

  "No, I don't believe in fate. I don't think we were fated to meet, and I don't think we were fated to make love in your apartment. The meeting was random, the lovemaking was your idea. Great idea, by the way."

  "Thank you. It's your turn to chase me."

  "I know the rules. I always send flowers."

  "Skip the flowers. Just be nice to me in public."

  I have a writer friend who is wise in the ways of women, and he once told me, "Men talk to women so they can have sex with them, and women have sex with men so that men will talk to them." This seemed to work out for everyone, but I'm not sure how much talk I need to engage in after sex. With Kate Mayfield, the answer seemed to be, Lots.

  "John?"

  "Oh . . . well, if I'm nice to you in public, people will talk."

  "Good. And the other idiots will stay away."

  "What other idiots? Besides Nash?"

  "It doesn't matter." She sat back and put her bare feet on the coffee
table, stretched, yawned, and wiggled her toes. She said, "God, that felt good."

  "I did my best."

  "I mean the food."

  "Oh." I glanced at the digital clock on the VCR and said, "I should leave."

  "Not a chance. I haven't slept overnight with a man in so long I can't remember who ties who up."

  I sort of chuckled. The thing about Kate Mayfield that attracted me, I guess, was that in public she looked and acted virginal and wholesome, but here . . . well, you get the picture. This turns some men on, and I'm one of them.

  I said, "I don't have a toothbrush."

  "I have one of those Business Class airline toilet kits for men. It should have everything you need. I've been saving it."

  "Which airline? I like the British Airways kit."

  "I think it's Air France. There's a condom in it."

  "Speaking of which—"

  "Trust me. I work for the Federal government."

  That may have been the funniest thing I'd heard in months.

  She turned on the TV and lay on the couch with her head in my lap. I caressed her breasts, which caused my hydraulic lift to extend, and she craned her neck and head forward and said, "A few inches higher, please," then laughed. Anyway, we watched a lot of news reruns until about 2:00 A.M., plus a few specials on what was now called "the Flight 175 Terrorist Attack." The network news seemed to be trying to leave the name of their major advertiser, Trans-Continental, out of the unpleasantness. In fact, bizarre as it may seem, one of the networks had a Trans-Continental ad showing happy passengers in Coach Class, which is an oxymoron. I think they use midgets to make the seats look bigger. Also, notice how they never use Arab-looking passengers in the ads.

  Anyway, regarding the news specials, the talking heads had been rousted from every corner of the planet, and they were babbling on about global terrorism, the history of Mideast terrorism, Libya, Muslim extremists, cyanide gas, autopilots, and on and on.

  At about 3:00 A.M., we retired to the bedroom carrying only our pistols and holsters with us. I said, "I sleep in the nude, but I wear my gun and holster."

  She smiled and yawned, then put her shoulder holster on over her bare skin, and if you're into that kind of thing, it looks sexy. She looked in the mirror and said, "That looks weird. I mean, the tits and the gun."