Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2]

by Lions Game(Lit)

  Malik had thanked the mursid, and after the holy man had gone, Malik had clarified the man's guidance by saying, "God is more pleased when good intentions become great success. Try to kill all of them without getting yourself killed."

  As Khalil stared out the cockpit windows, he thought he could do just that. He felt close to complete success in the worldly sense; in the spiritual sense, he already felt complete fulfillment.

  The pilot shut down the engines and said, "We can deplane now, sir."

  Khalil stood and moved back into the cabin as the copilot got out of his seat and went to the exit door, which he opened, causing a step to extend. The co-pilot exited the aircraft and held out his hand for Khalil.

  Asad Khalil ignored the outstretched hand and stood in the doorway of the aircraft, searching the landscape before him. The facility was illuminated by large overhead lights, and there seemed to be few people around at this hour, which was not quite 2:00 A.M. local time.

  As he stood in the doorway, the pilot remained in his seat, and Khalil knew he could escape if he had to.

  He thought back to his training in Libya. He had been assured in Tripoli that the Americans had a standard operating procedure and would not use a sniper to kill him—unless he was barricaded and firing at them, and then only if he had no hostages. Also, they would be sure he was alone, in the open, before they would surround him with armed men—and even women—who would shout at him to raise his hands and surrender. These people would have bulletproof vests, as he himself had, and he understood that only a head shot would kill them or him.

  He had practiced this situation in the camp outside of Tripoli, using men—but not women—dressed as police, or in suits, or some in paramilitary clothing. They all spoke a few words of English, and they would shout, "Freeze! Freeze! Hands up! Hands up! Get on the ground! Lay down! Lay down!"

  He had been instructed to feign great fear and confusion. He would kneel instead of lying down, and they would draw closer, still shouting, as was their method. Then, as they drew into range, he would draw both pistols from his waistband and begin shooting. The .40 caliber Glock would not pierce body armor, but unlike the older 9mm, it would knock a man down and stun him.

  To assure him of this, his trainers had demonstrated on a condemned prisoner. At twenty meters, they had fired a .40 caliber round from the Glock at the prisoner's chest, and the man, wearing a Kevlar vest, was knocked off his feet and lay stunned for a half minute, until he got up and was knocked down again by another round. They did this two more times, until the prisoner would not or could not get up again. A bullet to his head ended the demonstration.

  Boris had told him, "Do not expect to win a gun battle. Americans pride themselves on good marksmanship. Guns are an important part of their culture, and the ownership of guns is actually guaranteed in their Constitution."

  Khalil found this difficult to believe; Boris often invented things about the Americans, probably to impress and shock everyone.

  In any case, they had practiced what Boris called the shoot-out many times, and Boris had concluded, "It is possible to escape from a shoot-out. It has been done. If you are not badly wounded, you simply run, my friend, like a lion, faster and further than they can run. They have been trained not to shoot when they run—they may hit an innocent person or each other. They may shoot and not run, or run and not shoot. In either case, put some distance between you and them, and you may very well escape."

  Khalil recalled asking, "And what if they have a man with a sniper rifle?"

  "Then," Boris replied, "expect to have your legs shot out from under you. They hesitate to kill with a sniper rifle, and pride themselves on bringing down a man without killing him." He added, "At that point, be sure you have a round left for yourself. You shouldn't miss your head at such close range." Boris had laughed, but said in a soft voice, "I wouldn't kill myself if I were you. Fuck Malik."

  Asad Khalil noticed now that the co-pilot was still standing at the foot of the steps, attempting to keep a smile on his face while he waited patiently for his passenger.

  The pilot had gotten out of his seat and was also waiting for Khalil to step out.

  Khalil gripped his black bag with his left hand and kept his right hand free to draw his pistol. He stepped down onto the tarmac and stood close to the co-pilot.

  The pilot followed and walked toward a man whose windbreaker said RAMP AGENT.

  Khalil stayed close to the co-pilot, closer than the suggested one meter, but the co-pilot made no move to distance himself from his passenger. Khalil kept scanning the tarmac, the vehicles, the hangars, and the parked aircraft.

  The pilot walked back to Khalil and said, "That gentleman will take you to the main terminal in his own car." The pilot added in a softer voice, "You may want to give him a tip, sir."

  "How much?"

  "Ten should do it."

  Khalil was glad he'd asked. In Libya, ten dollars would buy a man for two days. Here, it would buy a ten-minute favor.

  Khalil said to the pilots, "Thank you, gentlemen. If I don't return in approximately two hours, then you can expect me, as I said, about nine o'clock. No later."

  Captain Fiske replied, "Understood. Please look for us in that building where there's a pilots' lounge."

  Khalil joined the ramp agent and after a few words of introduction, they walked to a parking lot and got into the ramp agent's automobile. Khalil sat in the front beside the agent, though in Tripoli he would take the honored position in the rear. The Americans, Boris kept reminding him, were very democratic on the surface. "In my former classless workers state," Boris said, "everyone knew their place and stayed there. In America, the classes pretend to mix with each other. No one is happy with this, but when the occasions arise, the Americans become great egalitarians. However, they spend a good deal of time avoiding those occasions."

  The ramp agent started his car and pulled out of the lot. He said to Khalil, "First time in Colorado Springs, Mr . . ."

  "Perleman. Yes." "Where you from?" "Israel."

  "No kidding? I was there once. You live there?" "Yes."

  They followed a barrier road toward the municipal terminal.

  "Too bad you can't stay around. This is a great place skiing, hiking, boating, horseback riding, hunting . . . well, hunting's kind of unpopular these days."

  "Why?"

  "People are down on guns, on killing."

  "Really?"

  "Some people. It's a big issue. You hunt?"

  "I'm afraid not. I don't like the sight of blood."

  "Well, then I'll keep my mouth shut."

  They continued toward the terminal. The ramp agent, forgetting his promise, said, "Lots of military around here. The north side of this airfield is Peterson Air Force Base, and just south of here is Fort Carson. Army. Also, as you probably know, this is the home of the United States Air Force Academy. And in the mountains there to the left is NORAD—North American Air Defense Command—built right into Cheyenne Mountain. There's a thousand people who work deep inside that expensive hole. Yeah, lots of military around here. Real conservative. Now, north of Denver you got Boulder. Real liberal. The People's Republic of Boulder." He laughed, then continued, "Like I said, I was in Israel. My wife's real religious, and she dragged me to Jerusalem once. I don't mean dragged. Great city. We saw all the religious sites. You know? Hey, you're Jewish, right?"

  "Of course."

  "Sure. We took this tour, you know, to the Dome of the Rock. It's an Arab mosque, but it turns out that this was the main Jewish temple once. I guess you know that. I mean, Christ probably went there. He was Jewish. Now, it's a mosque." He looked at his passenger and said, "I think the Jews should take it back. That's what I think. They had it first. Then these Arabs come along and grab it, and build a mosque there. Why should the Arabs own it?"

  "Because Muhammad ascended into heaven from that rock. Peace be unto him."

  "Huh?"

  Khalil cleared his throat and said, "This is what the M
uslims believe."

  "Oh . . . yeah. The guide said that. Hey, I shouldn't talk religion."

  Khalil did not reply.

  They pulled up to the front of the municipal terminal. Khalil opened his door and started to leave, then leaned back and gave the ramp agent a ten-dollar bill. "Thank you."

  "Thank you. See you later."

  Khalil got out of the automobile, and it pulled away. He saw that the terminal area was nearly deserted at this hour, but noted a taxi stand where two yellow vehicles sat parked.

  He walked into the terminal, aware that a man alone at this hour would attract attention if anyone were there to notice. But he didn't even see a policeman. A man pushed a large broom over the tile floor, but did not look at him. They had stressed to him in Tripoli that municipal airports had much less security than international airports, and that even if the authorities were looking for him in America, the risks at these smaller airports would be minimal.

  Khalil strode quickly and purposely through the main lobby, remembering from photos and diagrams where the business center and conference rooms were.

  In an area just off the lobby, he saw a door marked CONFERENCE ROOM 2. Another sign said RESERVED. There was a keypad, and he punched in a code and opened the door.

  He entered the room and closed the door behind him.

  The room was equipped with a conference table, eight chairs, telephones, a fax machine, and a computer console. A coffee machine sat in a small alcove.

  The computer screen had a message and he read, "Welcome Mr. Perleman—Have a successful meeting—Your friends at Neeley Conference Center Associates." Khalil didn't recall any such friends.

  He put his bag on the floor and sat at the keyboard of the computer. He erased the message, then clicked the mouse until he got to his e-mail screen. He typed in his password and waited for the modem to access his account. He then read the one incoming message, which appeared on the screen in English addressed to Perleman, from Jerusalem: We have reports that business is good with you. Sol's trip to Frankfurt has been terminated. Rival American firm in Frankfurt looking into this. No word here of rival American firm knowledge of your itinerary. Business in Colorado not necessary. Use judgment. California more important. Arrangements for return to Israel remain unchanged. Much success. See you soon. Reply requested. Mazel tov. It was . signed Mordecai.

  Khalil switched screens to send his response. He typed slowly: Reply your message in Colorado. Business good. California business soon.

  Khalil tried to fashion more English sentences, but it was not important that he do so. They had told him in Tripoli that any message would do, as long as it contained the word "business," which meant he was well, and not under the control of the Americans. He signed it Perleman, then sent his e-mail. He got out of his e-mail account, returned to the main screen, and shut off the computer.

  He looked at his watch and saw it was 4:17 A.M. New York time, two hours earlier here.

  The home of Colonel Robert Callum was in the foothills of the mountain range, less than half an hour from where he now sat. There was an all-night car rental agency less than ten minutes from the airport by taxi, and there was a car reserved for Samuel Perleman there.

  Khalil stood and paced the room. Business in Colorado not necessary. California more important. But why couldn't he do both?

  He thought about going back through the terminal, taking a taxi to the car rental agency, renting the car, then driving to the home of Colonel Callum. There was some risk involved. There was always risk involved. But for the first time since he had walked into the American Embassy in Paris, Asad Khalil had a sense of . . . not danger, he thought, but urgency.

  He continued pacing, weighing all the arguments for and against killing Colonel Callum—and, of course, his wife, and whoever else would be in the house.

  The plan was simple, just as it had been at General Waycliff's house. He would wait here, where it was safe, then go to the car rental agency, then drive to the Colonel's rural home in the early morning. The Colonel or his wife exited the house each morning, no later than seven-thirty, and retrieved a newspaper from the mailbox at the end of the driveway, then re-entered the house. Like most military people, the Callums were punctual and habitual.

  Once the door was open, the Callums were only five or ten minutes away from death, their remaining lifespan depending entirely upon Asad Khalil's mood and patience. He continued to pace the small room, like a lion, he thought, a lion such as the Romans kept in the arena at Leptis Magna, whose ruins he had seen near Tripoli. The lion knows from past experience that a man awaits him in the arena, and the lion becomes impatient. Surely he is hungry. The lion must be kept hungry. The lion also knows, from his past experience, that he always kills the man. What other experience could he know if he is still alive? But he also knows that he has encountered two kinds of men in the arena—the armed, and the unarmed. The armed fought for their lives, the unarmed prayed. They tasted equally well.

  Khalil stopped pacing. He squatted on the floor, balancing himself on his haunches, as the Berber tribesmen did in the desert. He raised his head and closed his eyes, but did not pray. Instead, he transported himself into the night desert, and imagined a million brilliant stars in the black sky. He saw the full bright moon hanging over Kufra, his native oasis, and saw the palms swaying in the cool desert breeze. The desert was, as always, quiet.

  He remained in the desert for a very long time, keeping the image unchanged, waiting for an unbidden image to appear out of the desert sands.

  Time passed on earth, but stood still on the desert. Finally, a Messenger came out from the oasis, draped in cloths of black and white, illuminated by the moonlight, and casting a shadow on the sands as the figure moved toward him. The Messenger stood before him but did not speak, and Asad Khalil dared not speak.

  Khalil could not see the Messenger's face, but heard now a voice. The voice said, "In the place where you are now, God will do your work for you. Go from that place to the other place across the mountains. The sands of time are running out. Satan is stirring."

  Asad Khalil murmured a prayer of thanks, opened his eyes, and stood. He focused on the wall clock across the room and saw that over two hours had passed, though it seemed only minutes.

  He gathered his black bag, left the room, and moved quickly through the deserted lobby.

  Outside, he saw a solitary taxi occupied by a sleeping driver. He got into the rear of the taxi and slammed the door hard.

  The taxi driver awoke with a start and mumbled some confused words.

  Khalil said, "To the corporate jet facility. Quickly."

  The driver started the engine, threw the vehicle into gear, and pulled away. "Where?"

  Khalil repeated his destination and threw a twenty-dollar bill on the front seat beside the driver. "Quickly, please. I am late."

  The driver sped up and got onto the barrier road. Within ten minutes, he was at the corporate jet facility.

  Khalil said, "Over there."

  The driver pulled up to a small building, and Khalil jumped out and walked rapidly inside. He located the pilots' lounge, where he found both men asleep on couches. He shook the captain and said, "I am ready. We must leave soon."

  Captain Fiske rose quickly to his feet. The co-pilot was already awake, and he stood, stretched, and yawned.

  Khalil looked pointedly at his watch and said, "How long will it take to leave here?"

  Captain Fiske cleared his throat and said, "Well . . . I've already made preliminary arrangements for our outbound flight plan . . . in the event we needed to depart suddenly—"

  "Yes. Good. We need to depart suddenly. When can we depart?"

  "Well, at this early hour, there's not much other air traffic, so we can take a few shortcuts with standard procedure. With luck, we should be able to taxi out in fifteen minutes."

  "As soon as possible."

  "Yes, sir." Captain Fiske walked over to a telephone and punched in a few numbers.


  "Who are you calling?"

  "Control Tower to activate my prior arrangements." Captain Fiske spoke to someone on the other end.

  Khalil listened carefully to what the pilot said, but it seemed to be nothing more than technical talk. He looked at the pilot's face, then at the co-pilot, and both men seemed composed.

  Captain Fiske said into the phone, "Okay. Thanks." He hung up and said to his passenger, "They promised to have our air traffic control departure clearance within fifteen minutes. The local Tower is already coordinating it with Denver Radar."

  "I was under the impression that private flights could take off and land at their convenience."

  Captain Fiske replied, "That's not true for private jets, sir, because of the altitudes at which we fly. Above eighteen thousand feet, instrument flight rules always apply."

  "I see. Can we go now to the aircraft?"

  "Sure."

  Fiske led the way out of the lounge, followed by the copilot and Asad Khalil. They walked quickly through the cold night air toward the Learjet less than fifty meters away. Khalil stayed very close to his pilots, but he had the sense that there was no immediate danger.

  The co-pilot opened the door of the Lear and entered, followed by Khalil, then by the captain.

  The pilots took their seats and began their pre-flight checks as Khalil took his seat in the rear of the cabin.

  Captain Fiske called back through the open partition, "We'll be under way shortly. Please fasten your seat belt."

  Khalil did not reply.

  A few minutes later, Fiske started both engines, and the co-pilot radioed, "Springs Tower—Lear Two-Five Echo is ready to taxi."

  The Tower replied, "Roger, Lear Two-Five Echo, taxi to Runway Three-Five Left. I've got your clearance when you're ready."