Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2]

by Lions Game(Lit)

  "Really? Do you have real guns, too?"

  Torn ignored me and continued his briefing.

  I interrupted and asked, "Have you evacuated the neighborhood?"

  He replied, "We went through a lot of debate about that, but Washington agrees that to try to evacuate the neighborhood could be a problem."

  "For whom?"

  He explained, "First of all, there's the obvious problem of agents being seen making the notifications. Some people aren't home, and may come home later, so this could take all night. And the residents would be inconvenienced if they had to leave their homes for an indefinite period." He added, "We did, however, evacuate the houses on both sides and the back of this one, and there are agents in place at those houses."

  The subtext here was that it was more important to capture Asad Khalil than it was to worry about taxpayers getting caught in a crossfire. I couldn't honestly say I disagreed with this.

  Ms. Rhee added, "The stakeout people are instructed not to try to apprehend the suspect on the street, unless he senses danger and attempts to flee. Most likely, the apprehension will take place in or near this house. The suspect is most probably alone, and most probably armed with only two handguns. So, we don't expect there to be a large exchange of gunfire—or any gunfire—if we play it right." She looked at Kate and me and said, "The block will be sealed off to traffic if we determine that the suspect is approaching."

  I personally thought the neighbors wouldn't even notice if there was a wild shoot-out on the front lawn if they had their TVs and stereos turned up loud enough. I said, "I agree, for what it's worth." But I had this mental image of a kid riding by on a bicycle at the worst possible moment. It happens. Boy, does it happen.

  Kate said, "I assume the stakeout people have night vision devices."

  "Of course."

  So, we chatted awhile, and Kate made sure to tell Tom and Kim that she was once a California girl herself, and everyone agreed that we all had our acts together, except perhaps me, who felt a bit like the odd man out here.

  Tom mentioned that Wiggins' former house in Burbank was also occupied and staked out by the FBI, and he informed us that the local police here and in Burbank were alerted but not asked for direct assistance.

  At some point, I got tired of hearing how everything was covered nine ways from Sunday, and I asked, "Where's your sixth person?"

  "In the garage. The garage is very cluttered, so Wiggins can't pull his car in there, but the door has an automatic opener, so Wiggins may enter that way on foot and come into the kitchen through the connecting door. That's probably what he'll do, since it's closest to where he'll pull his car into the driveway."

  I yawned. I was a little jet-lagged, I guess, and I hadn't had much sleep in the last few days. What time was it in New York? Later? Earlier?

  Tom also assured us that every effort was being made to locate Elwood Wiggins before he headed back to this house. He said, "For all we know, Khalil could try to take him while he's driving home. Wiggins drives a purple Jeep Grand Cherokee, which is not here, so we're alert for that vehicle."

  I asked, "What does the girlfriend drive?"

  Tom replied, "A white Ford Windstar, which is still at the girlfriend's house in Oxnard, which is also under surveillance."

  Oxnard? Anyway, what could I say? These people had their act together, professionally speaking. Personally, I still thought they were dweebs.

  I said, "I'm sure you've been briefed about Khalil's prior visits to Wiggins' now-deceased squadron mates. This indicates to me that Khalil may have more information about Chip Wiggins than we do. He's been looking for Wiggins a lot longer than we have." I added, for the record, "There's a strong possibility that Mr. Wiggins and Mr. Khalil have already met."

  No one commented on that for a few seconds, then Tom said, "That doesn't change our job here. We wait and see if anyone shows up." He added, "There's an area-wide alert for Khalil and for Wiggins, of course, so we may get a happy call from the police telling us that one or the other or both have been found. Wiggins alive, and Khalil in cuffs."

  I didn't want to be the bearer of further bad karma, but I couldn't picture Asad Khalil in cuffs.

  Tom sat back at Wiggins' PC and said, "I'm trying to get a clue as to where Wiggins might be from his computer. I've checked his e-mail to see if he corresponded with a state or national park, or reserved a camping space, something like that. We think he's camping . . ." he said, I guess to me, " . . . that's where you go out into the woods with a tent or a camper."

  I concluded that Ms. Lopez and Tom had spoken.

  I asked Ron, "Have you checked out Wiggins' underwear?"

  He looked at me from his computer. "Excuse me?"

  "If he wears medium boxers, I'd like to borrow a pair."

  Tom thought about this a moment, then replied, "We've all brought changes of clothing, Mr. Corey. Perhaps someone—one of the men, I mean—can loan you a pair of shorts." He added, "You can't use Mr. Wiggins' underwear."

  "Well, I'll ask him directly if he shows up."

  "Good idea."

  Kate, to her credit, wasn't trying to pretend she didn't know me. She said to Kim Rhee, "We'd like to see the garage and the rest of the house."

  Ms. Rhee led us into the foyer and opened the door of a room that faced the backyard. The room, formerly a bedroom probably, was now an entertainment center that held a huge television, audio equipment, and enough speakers to start another earthquake. On the floor, I noticed six overnight bags. Ms. Rhee said, "You can use this room later. The couch pulls out into a bed." She added, "We'll all take turns getting some sleep if this goes through the night."

  I used to think that my worst nightmare was Thanksgiving dinner with my family, but being trapped in a small house with FBI agents just took first place.

  Ms. Rhee also showed us the small bathroom, leading me to wonder if she'd once been a Realtor. One thing I noticed that was missing from this house was any military memorabilia, which indicated to me that Elwood Wiggins did not want to be reminded of his service. Or maybe he just lost everything, which would be consistent with the profile we'd developed on him. Or, maybe we had the wrong house. It wouldn't be the first time the Feds got the address wrong. I thought about mentioning this last possibility to Ms. Rhee, but this is a touchy subject with them.

  Anyway, we went back to the kitchen, and Ms. Rhee opened a door that revealed a cluttered garage. Sitting in a lawn chair behind some stacked cardboard boxes was a suntanned, blond-haired young man, obviously the junior agent, reading a newspaper by the light of the overhead fluorescent bulb. He stood and Ms. Rhee motioned him back in his seat, so that he was out of sight if the garage door suddenly opened electronically. She said to Kate and me, "This is Scott, who volunteered for garage duty." She actually smiled.

  Scott, who looked like he'd just stepped off a surfboard, flashed his capped teeth and waved.

  I said, "Like, yeah, dude, hang in there—you know?" Of course I didn't say that, but I really wanted to. Scott was my size, but he didn't look like the boxer shorts-type.

  Ms. Rhee closed the door, and we stood in the kitchen with Edie and Juan. Ms. Rhee said, "We've stocked some frozen and canned food here so that no one has to come or go, if this lasts awhile." She added, pointedly, "We have six days of food for six people."

  I had a sudden image of FBI agents turning cannibal when the food ran out, but I didn't share this thought. I was already on thin ice, or the California equivalent.

  Juan said, "Now that we have two more mouths to feed, let's order pizza. I need my pizza."

  Juan was okay, I decided. Unfortunately, he was a lot heftier than me, and also not the boxer shorts-type.

  Edie said to me, "I cook a mean microwaved macaroni and cheese."

  We all chuckled. This sucked. But so far, it was turning out a hell of a lot better than I could have expected twenty-four hours ago. Asad Khalil was within our grasp. Right? What could go wrong? Don't ask.

  But at least i
f Wiggins was still alive, he had a good chance of staying alive.

  Kate said she was going to call Jack Koenig and invited me to join her in the back room. I declined the opportunity, and she went off. I stayed in the kitchen, chatting with Edie and Juan.

  Kate returned about fifteen minutes later and informed me, "Jack says hello and congratulations on a good piece of detective work. He wishes us luck."

  "That's nice. Did you ask him how Frankfurt was?"

  "We did not discuss Frankfurt."

  "Where's Ted Nash?"

  "Who cares?"

  "I do."

  Kate glanced at our colleagues and said softly, "Don't obsess on things of no importance."

  "I just want to punch him in the nose. No big deal."

  She ignored this and said, "Jack wants us to call him if something develops, of course. We're authorized to escort Khalil, dead or alive, to New York, rather than Washington. That's a major coup."

  "I think Jack is counting his chickens before they're caught and cooked."

  Again, she ignored me and said, "He's working with various local police forces to put together a clear picture of Asad Khalil's movements, his murders, and who his accomplices are or might have been."

  "Good. That will keep him busy and off my back."

  "That's exactly what I told him."

  I think Ms. Mayfield was joshing me. Anyway, we didn't want to amuse our colleagues any further, so we ended the conversation.

  Edie offered us coffee, and Kate, Kim, and I sat at the kitchen table with Edie, while Juan watched the back door. They were all very interested in everything that had happened since Saturday, asking us questions about things that hadn't appeared in the news or in their reports. They were curious about what the mood was at 26 Federal Plaza and what the bosses in Washington were saying, and all that. Law enforcement people, I decided, were the same all over, and despite the initial politely masked hostility upon our arrival, we were all getting along well—bonding and all that good stuff. I thought about leading everyone in a chorus of "Ventura Highway," or maybe "California, Here I Gome." But I didn't want to overdo this West Coast moment.

  It seemed that everyone knew I was ex-NYPD, so I guess they'd been warned, if that's the right word, or perhaps they just figured it out.

  It was one of those times when things seem calm and normal, but everyone knows that a ringing telephone could stop the show and make your blood run cold. I've been there, and so had everyone else in that house. I guess I must thrive on this stuff because I wasn't thinking about my nice, safe classroom at John Jay. I was thinking of Asad Khalil, and I could almost taste the murdering bastard. In fact, I thought of Colonel Hambrecht being chopped to death with an ax, and the schoolkids in Brussels.

  An hour went by, and the five agents took turns alternating guard posts. Kate and I volunteered to relieve them, but they seemed to want us in the kitchen.

  Scott was at the table now and wanted to know about New York City. I tried to convince him that people surfed in the East River and everyone chuckled. I was tempted to tell my Attorney General joke, but it might be taken wrong.

  Anyway, I was being modest about my contributions to the case, hardly mentioning that I'd figured out what Asad Khalil was up to, and glossing over my blinding brilliance regarding identifying the pilots who were marked for death.

  On this subject, everyone was sort of glum, realizing that a lot of good guys, who had served their country, were now dead, murdered by a foreign agent. This was not supposed to happen.

  It was close to 9:00 P.M. when a phone rang somewhere, and the talk stopped.

  Tom came into the kitchen within seconds and said, "There's a blue delivery van cruising the neighborhood, single male occupant driving. The guys with the night vision say he fits the description of the suspect. Everyone take their posts."

  Everyone was already up and moving, and Tom said to Kate and me, "Go into the TV room." He quickly left the kitchen as Kim Rhee went into the garage where Roger Fleming was now pulling duty. She left the door open, and I could see Roger crouched behind the cardboard boxes with his gun drawn. Kim pulled her piece and went to the garage door and stood to the side next to the lighted electric door opener.

  Juan was at the back kitchen door, gun drawn, standing off to the side.

  Kate and I went into the living room where Tom and Edie stood, guns drawn, on both sides of the front door. Scott was standing in front of the door, peering through the peephole. I couldn't help noticing that Scott had all his clothes off, except for a pair of baggy bathing trunks, in the back of which protruded the butt of a Glock. I guess this was the California version of undercover. In any case, I gave the guy credit for not wearing a bulletproof vest.

  Tom saw us and again strongly suggested we retreat into the TV room, but he figured out quickly that we hadn't come three thousand miles to watch TV while the bust went down. He said, "Take cover, over here."

  Kate moved beside Tom, who was to the left of the door, and drew her piece. I moved beside Edie, who was wedged against a small space between the door and the right-hand wall of the living room. The door would open toward us, and we would be behind it as it opened. There were enough guns drawn, so I didn't draw my Glock. I looked at Kate, who looked back at me, smiled and winked. My heart was pounding, but not, I'm afraid, for Kate Mayfield.

  Tom had the cell phone to his ear, and he was listening. He said to us, "The van is slowing down a few doors away . . ."

  Scott, at the peephole, said, "I see it. He's stopping in front of the house."

  You could hear the breathing in the room, and despite all the backup and all the high-tech stuff and the bulletproof vests, there's still nothing quite like the moment when you're about to come face-to-face with an armed killer.

  Scott, pretty cool, I thought, said, "A guy is getting out of the van . . . street side, can't see him . . . he's going to the rear . . . opening the doors . . .he's got a package . . . coming this way . . . fits the description . . . tall, Mideastern type . . . wearing jeans and a dark-collared shirt, carrying a small package in one hand . . . looking up and down the block . . ."

  Tom was saying something into the cell phone, then put it in his pocket. He said to us, softly, "You all know what to do."

  Actually, I missed that rehearsal.

  Tom said, "Keep in mind, it could be an innocent delivery man . . . don't get too physical, but get him down and get the cuffs on him."

  I wondered what happened to the goo-gun. I felt my face getting a little sweaty.

  The doorbell rang. Scott waited about five seconds, then reached for the knob and opened the door. Before the door blocked my view, I saw Scott smiling as he said, "Something for me?"

  "Mr. Wiggins?" said a voice with an accent.

  "No," replied Scott, "I'm just housesitting. You want me to sign for that?"

  "When will Mr. Wiggins be home?"

  "Thursday. Maybe Friday. I can sign. It's okay."

  "Okay. Please sign here."

  I heard Scott say, "This pen doesn't write. Come on in."

  Scott backed away from the door, and I couldn't help but think that if Scott were really a housesitter, he'd soon be dead and stinking in the back room while Asad Khalil waited for Mr. Wiggins to return home.

  The tall, swarthy gentleman stepped a few feet into the living room, just clearing the door, which Edie kicked shut. Even without being briefed, I knew what was going to happen next. Before you could say abracadabra, Scott grabbed the guy's shirt and yanked him into the waiting crowd.

  Within about four seconds, our visitor was pinned face down with me on his legs, Edie's foot on his neck, and Tom and Scott putting the cuffs on him.

  Kate opened the door and signaled with a thumbs-up to whoever was watching through binoculars, then she ran down the walkway to the van, and I followed her.

  We checked out the van, but there was no one in it. A few packages lay scattered on the floor, and Kate found a cell phone on the front seat, which she
took.

  Cars started appearing out of nowhere, screeching to a halt on the street in front of the house as agents jumped out, just like in the movies, although I don't see the need for the screeching. Kate said to them, "He's cuffed."

  The garage door had opened, I noticed, and Roger and Kim were on the lawn now. Still no neighbors around. I had the unkind thought that if this were a movie being made, the crowds would be uncontrollable, as people shouted out offers to be an extra.

  Anyway, as per SOP, the stakeout people all got back in their vehicles and began leaving to resume their watch of the house so as not to scare off any accomplice that might show up, not to mention upsetting Mr. Wiggins, if he came home—or his neighbors, who might eventually notice.

  Kate and I ran back into the house where the prisoner was now lying on his back, being closely searched by Edie and Scott, as Tom stood over the guy.

  I looked at the man and was not overly surprised to discover that it wasn't Asad Khalil.

  CHAPTER 48

  Kate and I looked at each other, then at everyone around us. No one looked real happy.

  Edie said, "He's clean."

  The man was sort of blubbering, tears streaming down his face. If anyone had any doubts that this was not Asad Khalil, the blubbering clinched it.

  Roger and Kim were in the living room now, and Kim said she was going to radio the stakeout units and tell them that the delivery guy wasn't our man, and to stay alert.

  Scott had the guy's wallet and was rummaging through it. He asked the guy, "What's your name?"

  The man tried to get himself under control and sobbed out something that sounded like a mixture of phlegm and snot.

  Scott, holding the guy's driver's license with his photo, said again, "Tell me your name."

  "Azim Rahman."

  "Where do you live?"

  The man gave a Los Angeles address.

  "What's your birth date?"

  And so on. The guy got all the driver's license questions correct, which led him to believe he was about to be sent on his way. Wrong.

  Tom started asking him questions that weren't on the driver's license, such as, "What are you doing here?"