"Are you out of clichés yet?"
"Go to hell." She stood and walked away.
I would have jumped up and followed her, but I think we'd already attracted some attention from our co-workers, so I just smiled and whistled "God Bless America" while members of the ATTF Anti-Sex League e-mailed Big Brother about a possible Sexcrime in progress.
Which reminded me that I needed clean undershorts. There was a men's shop close by, and I'd planned a quick stop there later. I was going to let Kate help me pick out a shirt and tie.
Anyway, back to the most wanted terrorist in America. I accessed my e-mail and saw a message from the Counterterrorism section in D.C. marked URGENT. The distribution was limited to only those in the Incident Command Center. I read from the screen: Air Force informs us it may be difficult to ID pilots who flew Al Azziziyah mission. Records exist for full squadrons and larger units, but smaller sub-units need further research.
I thought about this. It had the ring of truth, but I was so paranoid by now, I wouldn't believe an exit sign.
I read the remainder of the communique: We have passed on to Air Force substance of Rose Hambrecht's telephone interview with New York agents, i.e., four aircraft, F-llls, on Al Azziziyah mission, eight airmen. General Waycliff murder, etc., see prior comm. on this. A.F. personnel and historian office are researching names, as per above para. Mrs. Hambrecht has been phone-contacted, but will not divulge names via. phone. A general officer with escort has been dispatched from Wright-Patterson AFB, Dayton, Ohio, to Hambrecht home, Ann Arbor. Mrs. Hambrecht says she will divulge names to them, in person, with proper ID and waivers, etc. Will advise. I printed out the e-mail, circled URGENT in red, and threw it on Kate's desk.
I thought about this situation. First of all, Mrs. H. was a tough cookie and no phone threats, pleas, or cajoling were going to make her do what she'd been told not to do since she'd become an Air Force wife long ago.
Secondly, it occurred to me that, ironically, the security that had been put in place to protect these airmen from retaliation was the same security that had kept us from understanding what was going on, and now was hindering us from protecting them.
Also, it was obvious that the security had already been breached at some point. That's why Asad Khalil had a list of names, and we didn't. But what names did he have? Only those eight airmen on the Al Azziziyah mission? Probably. Those were the guys he wanted to whack. And did he have all eight names? Probably.
I ran this through my mind—eight men, one killed in the Gulf, one murdered in England, one murdered with his wife in their home on Capitol Hill, of all places. One had a serious illness, according to Mrs. Hambrecht. That left four probable victims—five, if the sick guy didn't die before Khalil killed him. But I had no doubt, as I'd said, that some of them were already dead. Maybe all of them, plus anyone around them who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, like Mrs. Waycliff and the housekeeper.
It's a little disturbing when your own country becomes the front lines. I don't pray often, and never for myself, but I prayed for those guys and their families. I prayed for the known dead, the probable dead, and the soon-to-be dead.
Then, I had a brilliant idea, checked my personal telephone book, and dialed a number.
CHAPTER 45
The Learjet continued its climb out of Colorado Springs. Asad Khalil moved to the port side of the aircraft and sat in the last seat. He stared out at the towering mountains as the aircraft continued north. It seemed to him that they had already climbed above the height of the tallest mountain, yet the aircraft continued straight ahead. In fact, he could now see the large, lighted expanse of Denver ahead.
He considered the possibility that the pilots may have been radioed a warning, and that they would feign a mechanical problem and land at some isolated airfield where the authorities were waiting for him. There was a quick and simple way to find out.
He stood and walked up the aisle to the cockpit. The partition was still open, and Khalil stood behind and between the two pilots. He said to them, "Are there any problems?"
Captain Fiske glanced over his shoulder and replied, "No, sir. Everything's fine."
Khalil studied the two pilots closely. He could always tell when someone was lying to him, or when someone was uneasy, no matter how good an actor that person thought he or she was. There appeared to be nothing in the manner of these two men that betrayed a problem, though he would like to have been able to see into their eyes.
Captain Fiske said, "We're beginning our turn west, over the mountains. We'll get some mountain turbulence, Mr. Perleman, so you may want to return to your seat."
Khalil turned and went back to his seat. The seat belt sign, which the captain had not used before, went on as a bell chimed.
The Lear banked to the left, then leveled off and continued on. Within a few minutes, the aircraft began to be buffeted by updrafts. Khalil could feel the jet continuing to gain altitude, its nose pointed up at a sharp angle.
The pilot came on the intercom and said, "We've just gotten our direct clearance for San Diego. En route time should be one hour and fifty minutes, which will put us on the ground at approximately six-fifteen A.M., California time. That's an hour earlier than Mountain Time, sir."
"Thank you. I think I understand the time zones now."
"Yes, sir."
In fact, Khalil thought, he had been traveling with the sun since Paris, and the earlier time changes had given him some extra hours, though he didn't particularly need them. His next time change would take him across the International Date Line, over the Pacific Ocean, and as Malik had said, "When you cross that line, the captain will announce this, and Mecca will be to the west, not in the east. Begin your prayers facing east, and end them facing west. God will hear you from both his ears, and you will be assured a safe journey home."
Khalil settled back in his leather seat, and his thoughts turned from Malik to Boris. It was Boris, he realized, who was more on his mind than Malik these last few days. Boris had been his primary briefing officer in regard to America and American customs, so it was natural now for Khalil to think more of Boris than of the others, who had trained his mind, body, and soul for this mission. Boris had trained him to understand the decadent culture in which Asad Khalil now found himself, though Boris did not always find American culture so decadent.
Boris had told him, "There are actually many cultures in America, from very high to very low. Also, there are many people, such as yourself, Asad, who believe deeply in God, and there are those who believe only in pleasure, money, and sex. There are patriots and those who show disloyalty to the central government. There are honest men and thieves. The average American is basically more honest than the thieving Libyans I've dealt with, despite your love of Allah. Do not underestimate the Americans—they've been underestimated by the British, the French, the Japanese warlords, Adolf Hitler, and by my former government. The British and French empires are gone, so is Hitler, the Japanese empire, and the Soviet empire. The Americans are still very much with us."
Khalil recalled replying to Boris, "The next century belongs to Islam."
Boris laughed and said, "You've been saying that for a thousand years. I'll tell you what is going to defeat you—your women. They are not going to put up with your nonsense much longer. The slaves will turn on their masters. I saw it happen in my country. One day your women will become tired of wearing veils, tired of being beaten, tired of being killed for fucking a man, tired of sitting home wasting their lives. When that day comes, people like you and your fucking mullahs had better be ready to negotiate."
"If you were a Muslim, that would be blasphemy,, and I would kill you right now."
To which Boris had replied, "Yob vas," then buried his fist in Khalil's solar plexus and walked away, leaving Khalil doubled over, gasping for air.
Khalil recalled that neither man spoke of the incident again, but both knew that Boris was already a dead man, so the incident needed no further resolution; it w
as the equivalent of a condemned prisoner spitting in the eye of the man who would behead him.
The aircraft was still climbing and still being tossed about by the mountain winds. Khalil looked down and saw the moonlit peaks of the snowcapped mountains, but the moonlight did not penetrate into the dark valleys.
He again settled into his seat and again thought of Boris. Boris, for all his blasphemies, his drunkenness, and his arrogance, had proved to be a good teacher. Boris knew America and Americans. His knowledge, Khalil had once discovered, had not been entirely accumulated during his time in America; Boris, in fact, had once worked in a secret training camp in Russia, a KGB facility, called, Khalil remembered, Mrs. Ivanova's Charm School, where Russian spies had learned to become Americans.
Boris had mentioned this secret to him once, in a drunken moment, of course, and told him that this was one of the last great secrets that had never been revealed by the old KGB after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The Americans, too, according to Boris, wanted this secret forever buried. Khalil had no idea what Boris was talking about, and Boris would not mention it again, even after much prodding by Khalil.
In any case, during Boris' time in that school, he claimed to have come to an understanding of the American soul and psyche beyond anything he'd learned by living in America. In fact, Boris had once said, "There are times when I think I am an American. I remember once going to a baseball game in Baltimore, and when The Star-Spangled Banner was played, I stood and felt tears forming in my eyes." Boris added, "Of course, I still feel the same way when I hear The Internationale." He smiled and said, "Perhaps I have developed multiple personalities."
Khalil recalled telling Boris, "As long as you don't develop multiple loyalties, you will be much happier and much healthier."
The intercom crackled, breaking into Khalil's memories of Boris.
Captain Fiske said, "Mr. Perleman, I apologize for the turbulence, but this is typical of a mountain range."
Khalil wondered why the pilot would apologize for something that God, not he, controlled.
Captain Fiske continued, "The air should smooth out in about twenty minutes. Our flight plan tonight will take us southwest across Colorado, then over what is known as the Four Corners—the place where the state borders of Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah come together. Then we continue southwest across the northern portion of Arizona. Unfortunately, you won't be able to see much after the moon sets, but you should be able to make out the desert and high plateaus."
Khalil had seen more desert in his life than these two had seen in their combined lives. He picked up his intercom and said, "Please let me know when we are passing over the Grand Canyon."
"Yes, sir. Hold on a moment . . . okay, in forty minutes we'll pass approximately fifty miles south of the South Rim. You may be able to see the general area of the Canyon from the right side, and certainly the high plateau beyond. But I'm afraid it won't be a very clear view from this altitude and distance."
Khalil had no interest at all in seeing the Grand Canyon. He was only assuring himself of a wake-up call in the event he fell asleep. He said, "Thank you. Don't hesitate to wake me when we approach the Canyon."
"Yes, sir."
Khalil tilted back his seat and closed his eyes. He thought again of Colonel Callum and was convinced he had made the correct decision in letting the Angel of Death deal with that murderer. He thought, too, of his next visit, to Lieutenant Wiggins. Wiggins, they had told him in Tripoli, was a man of erratic movements, unlike the men of habit and predictable existence that he had already killed. For this reason, and because Wiggins came at the end of his list, there would be someone in California to assist him. Khalil did not want or need assistance, but this portion of his mission was the most critical, the most dangerous, and also, as the world would soon discover, the most important.
Khalil felt himself falling into a sleep, and he dreamed again of a man who was stalking him. It was a confusing dream in which both he and the man were flying over the desert, Khalil in the lead, the man behind him, but out of sight—and flying over both of them was the Angel of Death that he had seen in the Kufra oasis. The Angel, he sensed, was contemplating which man he would touch and make fall to the earth.
This dream somehow transformed into a dream of him and the lady pilot flying naked, hand in hand, looking for a flat rooftop on which to alight so they could engage in carnal pleasure. Each building they saw below had been destroyed by a bomb.
The intercom crackled, and Khalil awoke with a start, sweat on his face, and his organ aroused.
The pilot said, "Grand Canyon coming up to your right, Mr. Perleman."
Khalil took a long breath, cleared his throat, and said into the intercom, "Thank you."
He rose and went into the lavatory. As he washed his face and hands in cold water, the dreams continued to run through his mind.
He returned to his seat and glanced out the window. The full moon had nearly set on the horizon, and the earth below was black.
He reached for the airphone and dialed a number from memory. A man's voice answered, "Hello."
Khalil said, "This is Perleman. I'm sorry to have awakened you."
The man replied, "This is Tannenbaum. It is no problem. I sleep alone."
"Good. I'm calling to see if we have business to do."
The man said, "The business climate is good here."
"And where are our competitors?"
"They are nowhere to be seen."
The rehearsed exchange complete, Khalil concluded with, "I look forward to our meeting."
"As planned."
Khalil hung up and drew a deep breath, then picked up the intercom.
The captain answered, "Yes, Mr. Perleman?"
Khalil said, "My phone call has necessitated another change of plans."
"Yes, sir."
Boris had said to Khalil, "Mr. Perleman should not be overly apologetic when he keeps changing his flight plans. Mr. Perleman is Jewish, and he is paying good money, and he wants service for his money. Business comes firsthand everyone else's inconvenience is of no concern to him."
Khalil said to the pilot, "I need now to go to Santa Monica. I assume that is not a problem."
The pilot replied, "No, sir. There isn't much difference in flight time from our present position."
Khalil already knew that. "Good."
Captain Fiske continued, "There won't be any delay with Air Traffic Control at this hour."
"What is our flight time to Santa Monica?"
"I'm putting in the coordinates now, sir . . . okay, our flight time will be about forty minutes, which will get us near the municipal airport at about six A.M. We may have to slow up en route to be sure to land after six because of the noise curfew."
"I understand."
Twenty minutes later, the Learjet began its descent, and Khalil could see a low range of mountains in the soft glow of the sunrise behind them.
Captain Fiske came on the intercom and said, "We're beginning our descent, sir, so you may want to fasten your seat belt. Those are the San Bernardino Mountains ahead. Also, you can see the lights from the eastern edge of Los Angeles below. Santa Monica Airport is to your left front, near where the coast meets the ocean. We'll be on the ground in ten minutes."
Khalil did not reply. He felt the aircraft steepening its descent, and he could see enormous ribbons of lighted highways and roads below.
He set his wristwatch to California time, which was now 5:55 A.M.
He heard the pilot speaking on the radio, but could not hear the other end of the conversation because the pilots were listening on their earphones. They had not always used the earphones during the flight from New York, and Khalil had now and then been able to hear radio transmissions. He was not suspicious regarding the earphones, but it was worth noting in the event that other small deviations developed.
This flight had been planned in Tripoli so that his change of destination, announced over the Grand Canyon, would put him
in Santa Monica no later—or even a few minutes earlier than if he'd landed in San Diego—and no earlier than the noise curfew allowed. If they were waiting for him in San Diego, and they discovered that he was going to Santa Monica, they had less than forty minutes to set a trap there. If it took longer to put the trap into place, the pilot would inform him of some delay, and Asad Khalil would make another request for a flight plan change, this time with a pistol to the pilot's head. Their alternate airport would be a small abandoned facility in the San Bernardino Mountains, only a few minutes' flying time from where they were now. A car with keys taped under the wheel well was waiting for him there. The authorities would soon learn who had the advantage—it was Asad Khalil in a private jet aircraft with a pistol.
They flew out over the ocean, then turned back toward the coast and continued their descent.
He waited for some indication of a delay in landing, but then he heard the Lear's landing gear being lowered, then watched the flaps extend from the back of the wing. Landing lights blinked on the tips of the wings and flashed into the cabin through the portholes.
All of these changes in flight plans, he knew, were no assurance that he would be safe on the ground. But since the possibility existed to change plans almost at will, it was decided to do so, if for no other reason than to make life more difficult for the Americans, if they were trying to trap him.
Malik had shown him two interesting films. In the first film, shown in slow motion, a lion was in full pursuit of a gazelle. The gazelle changed course to the left and Malik said, "Notice that the lion does not overcompensate in his turn to the left in order to intercept his prey. The lion knows that the gazelle can change direction quickly to the right, and the lion will overshoot his prey and lose him. The lion only changes directions at the same angle as his prey and follows directly behind him. He will not be fooled, and he knows that his speed will overtake even the gazelle, as long as he focuses on the animal's rear legs." The film ended with the lion leaping onto the haunches of the gazelle, who collapsed under the weight of his pursuer and waited quietly for his death.
Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2] Page 53