Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2]

by Lions Game(Lit)

  She called directory assistance and gave them the name Elwood Wiggins. She hung up and said, "Unlisted - number." She added, "I'll have our office there get the number."

  I looked at my watch. This had taken about an hour and fifteen minutes. If I'd gotten on the phone with Washington, I'd still be talking. I said to Kate, "Where's the closest FBI office to Ventura?"

  "There's a small Resident Agent Office right in Ventura." She picked up the phone and said to me, "I hope we're not too late, and I hope they can set a trap for Khalil."

  "Yeah." I stood. "I'll be back in about fifteen minutes."

  "Where are you going?"

  "Stein's office."

  "More cop stuff?"

  "Well, with Koenig over the Atlantic, Stein is the man. Be right back."

  I hurried off, out of the ICC.

  I took the elevator up. Captain Stein's office was located in the southwest corner of the twenty-eighth floor, and I had no doubt it had the exact same number of square feet as Mr. Koenig's southeast office.

  I sort of barged past two secretaries and found myself in the middle of the room facing Captain Stein, who was sitting at his large desk, talking on the telephone. He saw me and got off the phone. He said, "This has got to be important, Corey, or your ass is in a sling." He motioned me to a chair across from his desk, and I sat.

  We looked at each other, and we established that this was important. He opened his desk drawer, took out a seltzer bottle, and poured two vodkas in plastic cups. He handed one to me, and I drank about half of it. The Federal angels wept somewhere. He took a slug himself and said, "What do we got?"

  "We got it all, Captain, or most of it. But we got it about seventy-two hours too late."

  "Let's hear it."

  So I told him, quickly, without regard to grammar or punctuation, cop-to-cop, if you will, my mouth in New York overdrive.

  He listened, nodded, made no notes, then sat there when I finished and thought for a while. Finally, he said, "Four dead?"

  "Five, counting Colonel Hambrecht. Fourteen counting everyone, not to mention everyone on board Trans-Continental Flight One-Seven-Five."

  "That fuck."

  "Yes, sir."

  "We'll find this fuck."

  "Yes, sir."

  He thought a moment, then said, "And you didn't call anyone in Washington?"

  "No, sir. The call would be better coming from you."

  "Yeah." He thought awhile longer, then said, "Well, I guess we have one or two chances to collar this guy, assuming he didn't already get to this guy Wiggins, or, if he goes for Callum."

  "Right."

  "But maybe he's done, or he thinks it's getting hot around here, and he's out of the country already."

  "Possible."

  "Shit." Stein thought a moment and asked, "So the Ventura office is covering Wiggins' last known address?"

  "Kate is working on it."

  "And this guy Colonel Callum is covered?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Are the Feds laying a trap for Khalil there?"

  "I believe they're just covering the Callums. I'm thinking if Khalil knows this guy is dying, would he go for a dying man?"

  Stein replied, "If the dying man dropped a bomb on him, I think he would. I'll call the FBI in Denver and strongly suggest they set a trap." He finished his vodka and I finished mine. I thought about asking for seconds.

  Captain Stein looked up at his high ceiling awhile, then looked back at me and said, "You know, Corey, the Israelis took eighteen years to settle the score for the Munich Olympic massacre in nineteen seventy-two."

  "Yes, sir."

  "The Germans released the captured terrorists in exchange for the release of a hijacked Lufthansa flight. The Israeli Intelligence people systematically hunted down and assassinated each of those seven Black September terrorists who massacred the Israeli athletes. They got the last one in nineteen ninety-one."

  "Yes, sir."

  "They play a different game in the Mideast. There's no clock on the field. Ever."

  "I see that."

  Stein stayed silent a half minute or so, then said, "Did we do everything we could?"

  "I think we did. I'm not sure about anyone else."

  He didn't reply to that, but said, "Hey, good work. You like it here?"

  "No."

  "What do you want?"

  "Back where I was."

  "You can't go home again, my boy."

  "Sure I can."

  "I'll see what I can do. Meantime, you have enough writing to do to keep you busy through the weekend. I'll talk to you later." He stood, and I stood. He said, "Tell Ms. Mayfield I congratulate her, if it means anything from a cop."

  "I'm sure it does."

  "Okay, I've got a lot of calls to make. Scram."

  I didn't scram. I said, "Let me fly out to California."

  "Why?"

  "I'd like to be in on the last act."

  "Yeah? There's an army of police and FBI there by now. They don't need you."

  "But I need to be there."

  "Why not Colorado Springs? I'm thinking geography. Colorado's on the way to California, last time I checked."

  "I'm tired of chasing this asshole. I want to be ahead of him."

  "What if you go to California, and the FBI nabs him in Colorado Springs?"

  "I can live with that."

  "I doubt it. Okay, go wherever you want to go. You're better off out of here, anyway. I'll authorize it. Use your own credit card to save time. Don't get yourself killed. You have reports to write. Beat it before I change my mind."

  I said, "I'll take my partner along." "Whatever you want. You're the Golden Boy, for the moment. Hey, you watch the X-Files!" "Sure do."

  "How come he's not fucking her?" "Beats me."

  "Me, too." He put out his hand, and we shook. On my way out the door, he called after me, "I'm proud of you, John. You're a good cop."

  Captain Stein's office felt like a breath of fresh air in 26 Federal Plaza.

  I went quickly back downstairs to the ICC, aware that I could be trapped here by a phone call, or an FBI boss. I went directly to Kate's desk and said, "Let's go." I took her arm.

  "Where?" "California." "Really? Now?" "Right now."

  She stood. "Do I need—?" "Nothing. Just your gun and shield." "Badge. We say badge." "I say walk faster."

  She kept up with me as I walked toward the elevators. She asked, "Who authorized—?" "Stein." "Okay-She thought a moment, then said, "Maybe we should go to Colorado Springs."

  Maybe we should. But I didn't want an argument from my lady boss, so I said, "Stein only authorized California." "Why?"

  "I don't know. I think he wants me as far away as possible."

  The elevator came, we got on, and rode down to the lobby, then walked out to Broadway. I hailed a taxi, and we both got in. I said to the driver, "JFK."

  We pulled out into heavy downtown traffic.

  I said to Kate, "What's the news from Ventura?"

  "Well, our Ventura office got Wiggins' unlisted phone number, and they called Wiggins' house while I was on the phone. They got his answering machine, but didn't leave a detailed message. They just told him to call them the minute he got the message. Then, they sent some agents to his house, which they tell me is near the beach. Then they called for reinforcements from L.A." She added, "There are only a few people in the Ventura office."

  "I hope they don't find him home and dead. What do they plan to do? Surround the house with tanks?"

  "We are not as stupid as you think, John."

  "That's reassuring."

  "They'll check his house, interview neighbors, and, of course, lay a trap for Khalil."

  I tried to picture a bunch of guys in blue suits running around a beachside neighborhood, knocking on doors and flashing Fed creds. That should cause a stampede of illegal aliens heading south. Meanwhile, if Asad Khalil was staking out the neighborhood, he might get a little suspicious. But to be fair, I wasn't sure how I'd handle
this either.

  I said to Kate, "Call Ventura again."

  She took her cell phone and hit the buttons. The taxi was approaching the Brooklyn Bridge. I looked at my watch. It was just 3:00 P.M., noon in California. Or was it the other way around? I know it changes west of Eleventh Avenue.

  Kate said into the cell phone, "This is May field. Anything new?"

  She listened awhile and said, "Okay, I'm flying to LAX.

  I'll call back later with my flight info. Meet me with a car at Arrivals and get me to the police helipad. Meet me with a car wherever you intend to land me in Ventura. Right. I'm authorizing it. Don't worry about it unless you don't do it. Then you have something to worry about." She hung up and looked at me. "See? I can be an arrogant asshole like you."

  I smiled, then asked her, "So what's new in Ventura?"

  "Well, the three available Ventura agents got to Wiggins' house, and they broke in on the possibility that he was dead inside. But he's not home. So, they're in the house, and they're using his phone book to call people where he might be or who might know where he is. If he's dead, he's not dead at home."

  "Okay. He could be on a long flight."

  "Gould be. He flies for a living. Could be his day off. He could be at the beach."

  "How's the weather in Ventura?"

  "It's always the same. Sunny and seventy-two." She added, "I put in two years with the L.A. office about three years ago."

  "How'd you like it?"

  "It was okay. Not as interesting as New York."

  We both smiled. I asked her, "Where the hell is Ventura?"

  She told me, but I didn't quite understand the geography, or all the Spanish names she was throwing around.

  We were over the Brooklyn Bridge, and the cabbie got on the southbound BQE, which is the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, and may have once moved cars in an express-like fashion, but I've never seen that, except at 3:00 A.M. I flashed the Fed creds and said to the driver, "Step on it." I always say that even when I'm not late and I don't know where I'm going.

  I asked the cabbie where he was from, and he told me he was from Jordan. That was a new one. Pakistan is way ahead, but Macedonia is starting to catch up. I said to Kate, "Stein said to congratulate you."

  She didn't reply.

  I said, "There's an outside chance I can get back on the job—on the police force."

  Again, no reply, so I changed the subject and asked her, "Where do you think Khalil is?"

  "California, Colorado Springs, or in transit."

  "Maybe. But maybe he only worked the East Coast where he has some assets, then he got out, maybe with the help of some Mideast embassy. California and Colorado are a long way off."

  "John, this guy didn't come halfway across the world to . . ." She glanced at the taxi driver and said, " . . . to eat part of a meal. You know that."

  "Right. But I'm wondering how he's getting to L.A. The airports are dangerous for him."

  "The big ones are. I once had a fugitive who went from L.A. to Miami via small airports. He could have walked it faster, but he managed to give us the slip until we caught up with him in Miami."

  "Right."

  "And don't forget a private charter. I had a drug king once who chartered a private jet. A lot of them do that. No security points, no records of their flight, and they can go anywhere they can land."

  "Maybe we should alert the local airports in the Ventura area."

  "I suggested that to the Ventura office. They reminded me that there are dozens of small airports in the area, dozens more close by, and a private aircraft can land twenty-four hours a day at most of them. You'd need an army to watch every General Aviation facility, not to mention abandoned or unmanned landing fields."

  "I guess." Kate seemed to know this stuff better than I did. I do cabs and subways. Half of my fugitives wind up going to their mother's house or their girlfriend's apartment or hanging around their favorite saloon. Most criminals, especially murderers, are really stupid. I like the smart ones better. They give me a little challenge and a lot of entertainment. I said to Kate, "Khalil pulled this off because of speed. Like a purse snatcher. He's no idiot, and he knows that we'd be on to his game within three, maybe four days."

  "That's optimistic."

  "Well, we got on to him in less than four days. Right?"

  "Okay. And?"

  'And . . . I don't know. Wiggins is either dead already, or he's someplace else. Like maybe he flew cargo to the East Coast, and Khalil knew this and nailed him already. Those agents in his house might be there for a long time waiting for Wiggins or Khalil to show up."

  "Possible. You have any other ideas? You want to stay here in New York? You can go to that five o'clock meeting and listen to everyone tell you how brilliant you are."

  "That's a cheap shot."

  "And you don't want to miss the eight o'clock meeting tonight with Jack when he returns from Frankfurt."

  I didn't reply.

  "What do you want to do, John?"

  "I don't know . . . this guy has me a little baffled. I'm trying to put myself in his head."

  "Do you want my opinion?"

  "Sure."

  "I say we go to California."

  "You said go to Frankfurt."

  "I never said that. What do you want to do?"

  "Call Ventura again."

  "They have my cell phone number. They'll call me if anything develops."

  "Call Denver."

  "Why don't you buy your own cell phone?" She dialed the Denver FBI office and asked for an update. She listened, thanked them, and hung up. She said to me, "The Callums have been taken to housing at the Air Force Academy. We have agents staking out their off-post residence and waiting inside. Same as Ventura."

  "Okay." We were on the Belt Parkway now, heading for Kennedy Airport. I was trying not to second-guess myself, trying to stay on the roll I was on, without blowing it at the end.

  It's not easy being the man of the hour. Normally, I wouldn't confide all these doubts to anyone, but Kate and I were more than partners now. I said to her, "Call the L.A. office, and tell them to put a watch on consulate offices of countries that might help Khalil effect an escape. Also, make sure they're watching Wiggins' former Burbank house in case Khalil has old information and shows up there."

  "I did that while you were talking to Stein. They informed me they already knew what to do. Get a little respect for the FBI, John. You're not the only genius in law enforcement."

  I thought I was. But I guess I'm not alone. Still, there was something bothering me about how this was playing out. I was missing something, and I knew that I knew what it was, but I couldn't think of what it was. I ran the whole thing through my mind from Saturday to now, but whatever it was kept slipping away into a dark corner in my mind, not unlike how Asad Khalil kept slipping away.

  Kate was on her cell phone to the woman at Fed Plaza who makes travel arrangements and was saying we needed info on first available non-stop flights to LAX and to Denver. She listened, glanced at her watch, then said, "Hold on." She said to me, "Where would you like to go?"

  Where Khalil is going.

  "Where is he going?"

  L.A.

  She got back on the phone and said, "Okay, Doris, can you book the American flight? No, I don't have an authorization number." She looked at me, and I pulled out my credit card. Kate took it and said to Doris, "We'll pay and put in for reimbursement." She gave Doris my credit card info, and added, "Make it First Class. And please call the L.A. office and advise them of our arrival. Thanks." She handed me my card. "For you, John, they'll pick up First Class."

  "That may be true today, but by tomorrow they may not even pick up this cab ride."

  "The government loves you."

  "Where have I failed?"

  Anyway, we got to JFK, and the driver said, "Which terminal?"

  This is where I came in, on Saturday, with the same question. But this time I wasn't going to the Conquistador Club.

  K
ate said to the driver, "Terminal Nine."

  We got to the American Airlines terminal, got out, I paid the cab, and we went inside to the ticket counter, where we got two First Class tickets in exchange for my available credit. We ID'ed ourselves and filled out Form SS-113 that identified our carry-on luggage as two Glock .40 caliber automatic pistols.

  We had fifteen minutes to catch the flight, and I suggested a quick drink, but Kate looked at the departure board and said, "They're boarding now. We'll get a drink on board."

  "We're carrying."

  "Trust me. I've done this before."

  Indeed, there was another side to Polly Perfect, which hadn't been revealed to me heretofore.

  So, we flashed the creds and the Firearm Boarding Pass at the security point and got to the gate with minutes to spare.

  The First Class flight attendant was in her late seventies or thereabouts, and she put her dentures in her mouth and welcomed us aboard. I asked her, "Is this a local or an express train?"

  She seemed confused, and I recalled that seniority sometimes equaled senility.

  Anyway, I was out of airline jokes, so we gave her our Firearm Boarding passes, and she looked at me as though wondering how I'd been licensed to carry. Kate gave her a reassuring smile. But perhaps this was all my imagination.

  The flight attendant checked her manifest to assure herself of our identity, then went into the cockpit with the boarding passes, as per regulations, to inform the captain that two armed law enforcement people were on board, a nice lady and a weirdo, traveling together in First Class.

  We found our seats, two bulkhead seats on the port side. First Class was half full, mostly people who looked like Angelenos going home, where they belonged.

  Well, we weren't tarmacked too long, considering this was JFK, and we took off only fifteen minutes late, which the captain said we'd make up in the air, which is better, I guess, than making it up on the ground at LAX by taxiing to the gate at six hundred miles an hour while deploying the emergency chutes.

  So, off we went, into the wild blue yonder, armed, motivated, and hopeful.