Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2]

by Lions Game(Lit)

  The next film showed a lion being pursued across a grassy plain by a Land Rover in which two men and two women rode. The people in the vehicle, according to the narrator, were trying to get close enough to the lion to shoot a tranquilizing dart into him so that he could be captured for some scientific purpose.

  This film, too, was in slow motion, and Khalil noticed that the lion at first tried to rely on its speed to outdistance the vehicle, but as the lion tired, he changed direction to the right, and the vehicle went to the right as well, but at a steeper angle, in order to intercept the lion. But the lion, who now was in the position of a gazelle, knew by instinct and experience what the vehicle was doing, and the lion suddenly veered to the left, and the vehicle found itself far to the right of the retreating lion. The film ended, and Khalil never knew if the lion escaped.

  Malik had said, "The lion, when he is the hunter, remains focused on his prey. The lion, as the hunted, relies on his knowledge and instincts as a hunter to trick his pursuers. There are times when you must change directions to avoid your pursuers, and times when an unnecessary change of direction allows your prey to escape. The worst change of direction is that which leads you directly into a trap. Know when to change course, and when to increase your speed, and when to slow your pace if you smell danger ahead. Know, too, when to stop and blend into the bush. A gazelle who has escaped the lion quickly goes back to its mindless grazing. The gazelle is happy filling its belly with grass and not exerting itself. The lion still wants its meat, and will wait for the gazelle to get even fatter and slower."

  The Learjet passed over the threshold of the runway, and Khalil looked out the porthole as the aircraft touched down on the concrete landing strip.

  The Lear came to a quick stop, then exited onto a taxi-way. A few minutes later, the Learjet taxied up to a nearly deserted General Aviation ramp.

  Khalil watched closely through the cabin window, then stood, picked up his bag, walked to the front of the aircraft, and knelt behind the pilots. He scanned the scene through the cockpit windows and saw a man in front of them holding a set of lighted wands to guide the aircraft into a parking spot directly in front of the facility building.

  Captain Fiske shut down the engines and said to his passenger, "Here we are, Mr. Perleman. Do you need a ride somewhere?"

  "No. I am being met." Though I don't know by whom. Khalil continued to look through the cockpit windows.

  The co-pilot, Sanford, unfastened his harness, stood, and excused himself as he slid past his passenger.

  Sanford opened the cabin door and a soft breeze blew into the aircraft. Sanford then stepped out of the aircraft, and Asad Khalil followed him, ready to say good-bye, or to shoot the man in the head, depending on what happened in the next few seconds.

  Captain Fiske also exited the aircraft, and the three men stood together in the cool dawn air. Khalil said, "I am to meet my colleague in the coffee shop."

  "Yes, sir," said Captain Fiske. "There was a coffee shop in that two-story building last time I was here. Should be open now."

  Khalil's eyes darted around at the hangars and the maintenance buildings, still in early morning shadow.

  Captain Fiske said, "Over there, sir. That building with all the windows."

  "Yes, I see it." He looked at his watch and said to Captain Fiske, "I will be driven to Burbank. How long will the drive be?"

  Both pilots considered the question, then Terry Sanford replied, "Well, Burbank Airport is only about twelve miles north of here, so it shouldn't take long by car at this hour. Maybe twenty, thirty minutes."

  In case the pilots were wondering, Khalil said, "Perhaps I should have gone directly to the airport there."

  "Well, the noise curfew there lifts at seven A.M."

  'Ah, then that's why my colleague instructed me to meet him here."

  "Yes, sir. Probably."

  In fact, Khalil knew all of this, and he smiled to himself at the thought of his pilots discovering sometime in the future that their passenger was not as ignorant as they themselves had been regarding his flight plans. He said to them, "Thank you." He addressed both men and said, "And I thank you for your assistance and your company."

  Both pilots replied that it had been a pleasure having him on board. Khalil doubted their sincerity, but he gave each man a hundred dollars in cash and said, "I will request you both the next time I need your service."

  They thanked Mr. Perleman, touched their caps, and walked off toward the open hangar.

  Asad Khalil stood alone, exposed on the open ramp, and waited for the quiet to explode into screaming and running men. But nothing happened, which did not surprise him. He sensed no danger, and felt the presence of God in the rising sun.

  He walked unhurriedly toward the glass building to the right of the hangar and entered.

  He found the coffee shop and saw a man sitting alone at a table. The man wore jeans and a blue T-shirt and was reading the Los Angeles Times. Like himself, the man had Semitic features and was about his age. Asad Khalil approached the man and said, "Mr. Tannenbaum?"

  The man stood. "Yes. Mr. Perleman?"

  They shook hands, and the man who called himself Tannenbaum asked, "Would you like coffee?"

  "I think we should go." Khalil exited the coffee shop.

  The man paid for his coffee at the cash register and met Mr. Perleman outside the coffee shop. They left the building and began walking to the parking lot. Mr. Tannenbaum, still speaking English, inquired, "You have had a good journey?"

  "If I had not, would I be here?"

  The man didn't reply. He sensed that this compatriot walking beside him was not looking for companionship or idle talk.

  Khalil asked, "Are you sure you weren't followed?"

  "Yes, I'm certain. I am not involved in anything that would cause me to come to the attention of the authorities."

  Khalil replied in Arabic, "You are not now involved in any such thing. Do not make any such assumptions, my friend."

  The man answered in Arabic, "Of course. I apologize." They approached a blue van parked in the lot. On the side of the van were the words RAPID DELIVERY SERVICE—LOCAL AND STATEWIDE—GUARANTEED SAME OR NEXT DAY DELIVERY, followed by a phone number.

  The man unlocked the doors and got into the driver's seat. Khalil climbed into the passenger seat and glanced into the rear of the van where a dozen packages sat on the floor.

  The man started the engine and said, "Please fasten your seat belt to avoid being stopped by the police."

  Khalil fastened his seat belt, keeping his black bag on his lap. He said, "Route Four-Zero-Five, north."

  The man put the van in gear and drove out of the lot, then out of the municipal airport. Within a few minutes, they were on a wide Interstate, heading north. Khalil and the driver both looked in their sideview mirrors as they gathered speed.

  The sky had lightened, and Khalil looked around as they continued north. He saw exit signs for Century City, Twentieth Century-Fox Studios, West Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and something called UCLA. Khalil knew that Hollywood was where the American movies were made, but he had no interest in that subject, and his driver volunteered no information.

  The driver said, "I have parcels in the rear addressed to Mr. Perleman."

  Khalil did not reply.

  The driver added, "Of course I do not know what is in them, but I trust you will find everything you need."

  Again, Khalil made no reply.

  The driver remained quiet, and Khalil saw that the man was becoming uneasy, so Khalil addressed him by his real name and said, "So, Azim, you are from Benghazi."

  "Yes."

  "Do you miss your country?"

  "Of course."

  "And you miss your family. Your father, I believe, is still living in Libya."

  Azim hesitated, then replied, "Yes."

  "Soon you will be able to pay for a visit home, and you can shower your family with gifts."

  "Yes."

  They drove in silence awhil
e, both continuing to glance at the sideview mirrors.

  They approached an interchange where the Interstate crossed the Ventura Freeway. To the east was Burbank and the west led to Ventura. Azim said, "I was told you had the address of your meeting."

  Khalil replied, "I was told you had the address."

  Azim nearly ran the van off the road and began sputtering, "No . . . no . . . I know nothing . . . they told me—"

  Khalil laughed and put his hand on Azim's shoulder. "Oh, yes. I forgot. I have the address. Take the exit for Ventura."

  Azim forced a smile and a small laugh, then slowed into the right-hand lane and took the exit for Ventura.

  Asad Khalil looked at the wide valley filled with houses and commercial buildings, then looked off at the high hills in the distance. He noted, too, the palm trees, which reminded him of home.

  Khalil dismissed his thoughts of home and thought of his next meal. Elwood Wiggins had been an elusive prey, but eventually he had been located in Burbank, then had unexpectedly moved to the place called Ventura farther north, up the coast. In fact, this move was fateful, and placed Wiggins closer to where Asad Khalil intended to end his visit to America. Khalil could not doubt that the hand of Allah was moving the last few players of the game into place.

  If Lieutenant Wiggins was at home, then Asad Khalil could finish this business today, and move on to unfinished business.

  If Lieutenant Elwood Wiggins was not at home, then when he ultimately returned home, he would find in his house a hungry lion waiting to rip out his throat.

  Khalil let out a small laugh, and Azim glanced at him and smiled, but Azim's smile quickly faded as he saw the expression that had accompanied the laugh. Azim felt the hairs on his neck rise as he stared at his passenger, who had seemed to transform from man to beast.

  CHAPTER 46

  I dialed a Washington, D.C., number and a voice came on the line. "Homicide. Detective Kellum."

  I replied, "This is John Corey, NYPD, Homicide. I'm looking for Detective Calvin Childers."

  "He has an alibi for that night."

  Everyone's a comedian. I played the game and replied, "He's black, he's armed, and he's mine."

  Kellum laughed and said, "Hold on."

  I waited a minute and Calvin Childers came on the line. "Hey, John. How's it going in the Big Apple?"

  "Just peachy, Cal. Same old shit." The pleasantries over, I said, "I'm actually working on the Trans-Continental thing."

  "Well, whoop-de-doo. How'd you get a piece of that?"

  "It's a long story. To tell you the truth, I'm working for the FBI now."

  "I knew you'd amount to no good."

  We both chuckled. Cal Childers and I had attended the previously mentioned seminar at FBI Headquarters some years ago, and we took a liking to each other for reasons that had to do mostly with our problems with authority and Feds. It was Cal who told me the stupid Attorney General joke. I said to him, "You ever find out who killed the Wheaties?"

  He laughed and said, "Hey, were those guys stiff, or what? They sat there and never cracked a smile. You working for those turkeys?"

  "I'm on a short contract and a shorter leash."

  "Yeah. So, what can I do for you?"

  "Well . . . you want me to be straight, or should I try to bullshit you so that the less you know the better?"

  "Are we on the air?"

  "Probably."

  "You got a cell phone?"

  "Sure do."

  "Call me back." He gave me his direct dial. I hung up and said to Kate, who had returned from wherever it is that women stomp off to, "Excuse me. May I borrow your cell phone?"

  She was doing something on her computer, and without a word or a glance, she reached into her jacket and handed me her cell phone.

  "Thank you," I said. I dialed Calvin's direct number, he answered, and I said, "Okay. Are you working the General Waycliff case?"

  "Nope. But I know the guys who are."

  "Good. You guys got any leads?"

  "No. Do you?"

  "I have the name of the killer."

  "Yeah? He in custody?"

  "Not yet. That's why I need your help."

  "Sure. Give me the name of the killer."

  "Sure. Give me some help."

  Cal laughed. "Okay, what do you need?"

  "Here's the deal—I need the names of some guys who flew a bombing mission with the deceased General. I'll tell you straight, these names are top secret, and the Air Force and DoD are stonewalling, or dragging their feet, or maybe they don't know."

  "Then how am I supposed to know?"

  "Well, you can casually ask the family, or you can go to the deceased's house and look around. Look in his address book, or in his files. Maybe there's a photo, or something like that. I thought you were a detective."

  "I'm a detective, not a fucking mind reader. Give me more."

  "Right. The bombing mission was on a place in Libya called . . ." I looked at a news article on my desk and said, "Al Azziziyah—"

  "I got a nephew named Al Azziziyah."

  Did I say we both had a weird sense of humor? I said, "It's a place, Cal. In Libya. Near Tripoli."

  "Oh, yeah, why didn't you say so? Now it's all clear."

  "The thing is, I'm pretty sure that General Waycliff was murdered by this guy, Asad Khalil—"

  "The guy who offed the whole plane?"

  "That's the guy."

  ' 'What the hell's he doing in D. C.?"

  "Murdering people. He's on the move. I think he wants to whack all the pilots and crew who participated in this raid on Al Azziziyah."

  "No shit? Why?"

  "Because he wants revenge. I think he lived in this place, and maybe some of those bombs killed people he knew. Understand?"

  "Yeah . . . so now he's getting some payback."

  "Right. The bombing mission was on April fifteen, nineteen eighty-six. There were four aircraft involved, F-llls, two-man crews, for a total of eight guys. One guy, a Colonel William Hambrecht, was ax-murdered near Lakenheath Airbase, in England, in January. Then there's General Waycliff, who was on the raid. Another guy, whose name I don't know, was killed in the Gulf War. So now you have two names—Hambrecht and Waycliff. Maybe there's a group photo or something."

  "Got it." After a second or two, he said, "Why'd this guy wait so long to even the score?"

  "He was a kid at the time. Now he's all grown up." I gave Cal a brief history of Asad Khalil, the defection in Paris, and other stuff that wasn't in the news.

  Cal said, "Hey, if this perp was collared in Paris, you must have prints and stuff."

  "Good point. Get the FBI lab to send you all they have. They even have fibers from the suit he might have been wearing in D.C. They also have DNA and some other stuff."

  "No shit?"

  "Yeah, they have that, too."

  He laughed, then said, "We haven't turned up much at the murder scene, but if this guy Khalil did it, at least Forensics can know what they're looking for, when the FBI sends prints and fibers and all that."

  "Right. Were the victims killed with a forty caliber?"

  "No. A forty-five. The General had a military forty-five automatic, and it's missing, according to his daughter."

  "I thought you weren't working this case."

  "I'm not directly. But it's a big case. White folks, you know?"

  "I know. Well, they can't pin this one on you."

  He laughed again. "Tell you what—give me a few hours—"

  "An hour, tops, Cal. There are other guys out there who need to be covered. We're probably too late for some of them already."

  "Yeah, okay. I've got to get hold of the guys working the case, and I'll go over to the victim's house myself and call you from there. Okay?"

  "I appreciate it." I gave him Kate's cell phone number and added, "Keep this to yourself."

  He said, "You owe me."

  "I already paid. Asad Khalil. That's your killer."

  "It better be, buddy. I'm
sticking my ass out with this."

  "I'll cover you."

  "Yeah. The FBI always covers the cops."

  "I'm still a cop."

  "You better be." He hung up. I put the cell phone down on my desk.

  Kate looked up from her computer and said, "I heard all of that."

  "Well, for the record, you didn't."

  "It's okay. I think you're within bounds on that."

  "That's a first."

  "Don't get paranoid. You're allowed to explore all legitimate avenues of investigation."

  "Even top secret stuff?"

  "No. But it appears that the perpetrator has this information, and therefore it's already compromised."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Trust me. I'm a lawyer."

  We both smiled. I guess we were pals again.

  We had a sort of tenuous conversation, the kind that lovers have after a little misunderstanding about one of the parties not getting rid of someone that he or she was screwing. We segued from that issue to business.

  Kate said, "If we can get those names and maybe addresses from your friend before Mrs. Hambrecht turns them over, or before the Air Force or DoD finds them, then we have a better shot at continuing to work this case." She added, "As opposed to Counterterrorism in Washington getting the names."

  I looked at her. Clearly, Ms. Mayfield, team player, was re-thinking how the game should be played.

  We made eye contact, and she smiled.

  I said, "Yeah. I hate it when people take things from me that are mine."

  She nodded, then said, "You're actually quite clever. I never thought to call D.C. Homicide."

  "I'm a homicide cop. This is cop-to-cop. We do it all the time. Gabe just did it." I added, "You were the one who thought to request Colonel Hambrecht's file. See? We work well together. FBI, cops, synergy. It works really well. What a concept. Why didn't I get into this outfit ten years ago? When I think of all the time I wasted on the police force—"

  "John, cool it."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "I'm ordering lunch. What would you like?"

  "Truffles on rye with béarnaise sauce, and pickles."

  "How'd you like my fist down your throat?"