Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2]

by Lions Game(Lit)

  Kate arrived and I stood and we pecked. We sat and looked at the menus, and I thought perhaps she'd forgotten the silly incident on the balconies. But then she put down her menu and asked, "When?"

  "June?"

  "Okay."

  The waitress came by, and we both ordered pancakes.

  I really wanted to read the Times, but I instinctively knew that my breakfast newspaper was a thing of the past.

  We chatted briefly about the plans for the day, the case, the people we'd met at Chip Wiggins' house, and who I was going to be introduced to by Kate later in L.A.

  The pancakes came and we ate. Kate said, "You'll like my father."

  "I'm sure I will."

  "He's about your age, maybe a little older."

  "Well, that's good." I remembered a line from an old movie and said, "He raised a swell daughter."

  "He did. My sister."

  I chuckled.

  She said, "You'll like my mother, too."

  "Are you and she alike?"

  "No. She's nice."

  I chuckled again.

  She said, "Is it all right if we get married in Minnesota? I have a big family."

  "Great. Minnesota. Is that a city or a state?"

  "I'm a Methodist. How about you?"

  "Any kind of birth control is fine."

  "My religion. Methodist."

  "Oh . . . my mother's Catholic. My father's . . . some kind of Protestant. He never—"

  "Then we can raise the children in a Protestant denomination."

  "You have kids?"

  "This is important, John. Pay attention."

  "I am. I'm trying to . . . you know, shift gears."

  She stopped eating and looked at me. "Are you totally panicked?"

  "No, of course not."

  "You look panicky."

  "Just a little stomach acid. Comes with age."

  "This is going to be all right. We are going to live happily ever after."

  "Good. But you know, we haven't known each other that long—"

  "We will by June," she said.

  "Right. Good point."

  "Do you love me?"

  "Actually, I do, but love—"

  "What if I got up and walked out of here? How would you feel? Relieved?"

  "No. I'd feel awful."

  "So? Why are you fighting how you feel?"

  "Are we about to go into analysis again?"

  "No. I'm just telling you like it is. I'm madly in love with you. I want to marry you. I want to have children with you. What else do you want me to say?"

  "Say . . . I love New York in June."

  "I hate New York. But for you, I'll live anywhere."

  "New Jersey?"

  "Don't push it."

  Time for full disclosure, so I said, "Look, Kate, you should know that I'm a male chauvinist pig, a misogynist, and I tell sexist jokes."

  "Your point is . . . ?"

  I saw I wasn't getting anywhere with this line of reasoning, so I said, "Also, I have a bad attitude toward authority, and I'm always on the verge of career problems, and I'm broke, and I'm bad at handling money."

  "That's why you need a good lawyer and a good accountant. That's me."

  "Can I just hire you?"

  "No. You have to marry me. I'm a full-service professional. Plus, I can prevent impotence."

  No use arguing with a professional.

  The light banter was over, and we looked at each other across the table. Finally, I said, "How do you know I'm the one for you?"

  "How am I supposed to explain that? My heart beats faster when you're in the room. I love the sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch of you. You're a good lay."

  "Thank you. You, too. Okay, I'm not going to bring up anything about careers, about you getting transferred, about living in New York, my paltry disability pension, our ten-year age difference—"

  "Fourteen years."

  "Right. I'm not going to fight this. I'm in love. Head over heels in love. If I blow this, I'll be miserable the rest of my life."

  "You will be. Marrying me is the best thing for you. Trust me. I mean, really. Don't laugh. Look at me. Look into my eyes."

  I did, and the panic was suddenly gone, and this weird feeling of peace flooded over me, just like I felt when I was bleeding to death on West 102nd Street. As soon as you stop fighting it—death or marriage—as soon as you let go and surrender, you see this radiant light and a chorus of singing angels bears you aloft, and a voice says, "Come along peacefully, or I'll have to handcuff you."

  No, actually the voice says, "The fight is over, the suffering is ended, a new life, hopefully a little less fucked up than the last, is about to begin."

  I took Kate's hand, and we looked into each other's eyes. I said, "I love you." And I really did.

  CHAPTER 50

  At 7:30 A.M., Chuck picked us up in front of the Ventura Inn and informed us, "Nothing new."

  Which wasn't completely true. I was now engaged to be married.

  As we drove to the Ventura office, Chuck asked us, "Was the hotel okay?"

  Kate answered him, "It was wonderful."

  Chuck inquired, "Did you check out?"

  Kate replied, "We did. We'll spend the next few days in L.A. Unless you've heard something different."

  "Well . . . from what I hear, the bosses in Washington want you both at a major press conference tomorrow afternoon. They want you in D.C. tomorrow morning latest."

  I asked, "What kind of press conference?"

  "The big one. You know, where they spill it all. Everything about Flight One-Seven-Five, about Khalil, the Libyan raid in nineteen eighty-six, about Khalil killing the pilots who were on the raid, and then about what happened yesterday with Wiggins. Full disclosure. Asking for the public's cooperation and all that."

  "Why," I wondered aloud, "do they need us at the press conference?"

  "I think they need two heros. Guy and a girl. The best and the brightest." He added, "One of you is very photogenic." He laughed. Ha, ha.

  This day wasn't starting out well, despite it being seventy-two degrees and sunny again.

  Chuck inquired, "Do we need to stop for anything? Underwear?"

  "No. Drive."

  A few minutes later, Chuck left us off in the parking lot of the Ventura FBI office and announced, "Surf's up. Gotta

  I assumed he was joking. Anyway, we got out, carrying our body armor, and walked toward the building.

  As we walked, I said to Kate, "This really sucks. I don't need to be put on display at a PR stunt."

  "Press conference."

  "Yeah. I've got work to do."

  "Maybe we can use the press conference to announce our engagement."

  Everyone's a comedian. It's probably my influence, but I wasn't in a funny mood that morning.

  So, we went into the building, rode up the elevator, and rang the door buzzer. Cindy Lopez let us in again and informed us, "You need to call Jack Koenig."

  If I never hear these words again, it will be too soon. I said to Kate, "You call."

  Cindy informed me, "He wants to speak to you. There's an empty office over there."

  Kate and I returned our vests, then went into the office, and I dialed Jack Koenig. It was just 8:00 A.M. in L.A., and I was reasonably certain it was 11:00 A.M. in New York.

  Jack's secretary put me through, and Jack said, "Good morning."

  I detected a note of pleasantness, which was scary. "Good morning." I put the call on speaker so that Kate could listen and talk. I said to Jack, "Kate's here."

  "Hello, Kate."

  "Hello, Jack."

  "First," Jack said, "I want to congratulate you both on an outstanding job, a great piece of detective work, and from what I hear, John, a very effective interrogation technique regarding Mr. Azim Rahman."

  "I kneed him in the balls, then tried to suffocate him. Old technique."

  A brief silence, followed by, "Well, I spoke to the gentleman myself, and he seemed happy for the oppor
tunity to be a government witness."

  I yawned.

  Jack continued, "I also spoke to Chip Wiggins and got some firsthand background on that Al Azziziyah raid. What a mission that was. But Wiggins did indicate that perhaps one of his bombs went a bit astray, and I wouldn't be surprised if it was that bomb that hit the Khalil house. Ironic, isn't it?"

  "I guess."

  "Did you know that this Al Azziziyah camp was dubbed Jihad University? It's true. It was and is a terrorist training center."

  "Am I being coached for this idiotic press conference?"

  "Not coached. Briefed."

  "Jack, I don't give a shit what happened in that place in nineteen eighty-six. I don't give a rat's ass if Khalil's family was killed by mistake or on purpose. I have a perp to catch, and the perp is here, not in Washington."

  "We don't know where the suspect is. For all we know, he may be in Libya, or back on the East Coast, and may very well be in Washington. Who knows? What I do know is that the Director of the FBI, and the Director of the Counterterrorism section, not to mention the Chief Executive Officer of the nation, want you in Washington tomorrow. So don't even think about pulling a disappearing act."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good. My ass is on the line if you don't show up."

  "I hear you."

  Jack quit while he was ahead on that one and asked, "Kate, how are you?"

  Kate spoke into the speaker and replied, "I'm fine. How's George?"

  "George is well. He's still at the Conquistador Club, but he'll be back at Federal Plaza tomorrow." Jack added, "John, Captain Stein sends his regards and his compliments for a job well done."

  "The perp is still at large, Jack."

  "But you saved some lives. Captain Stein is proud of you. We're all proud of you."

  And so forth. Chitchat, chitchat. But it's important to establish quasi-personal relationships in law enforcement. Everyone cares about everyone else as a person. This is good management, I guess, and fits nicely with the new touchy-feely America. I wondered if the CIA was like this. Which reminded me. I asked, "Where's Ted Nash?"

  Jack replied, "I'm not sure. I left him in Frankfurt. He was going to Paris."

  It occurred to me, not for the first time, that the CIA, upon whom so much once depended, was now being eclipsed by the FBI, whose mandate was domestic troublemakers. I mean, a guy like Nash or his colleagues could now vacation in Moscow with no more danger to themselves than bad food. An organization like that needs a purpose, and lacking a clear purpose these days, they were bound to get into mischief. Idle hands are the playthings of the devil, as my Protestant Grandma used to tell me.

  Anyway, Jack and Kate were chewing the fat, and Jack asked a few leading questions about how Kate and I were getting on, and so forth.

  Kate looked at me with that bursting-with-good-news look—so what could I do? I nodded.

  Kate said to Jack, "John and I have some good news. We're engaged."

  I thought I heard the phone hit the floor at the other end. There was a silence that lasted about two seconds longer than it should have. Good news for Jack would be that Kate Mayfield was filing a sexual harassment suit against me. But Jack is slick, and recovered nicely. He said, "Well . . . hey, that is good news. Congratulations. John, congratulations. This is very . . . sudden . . ."

  I knew I had to say something, so, in my best male macho tone I said, "Time to settle down and tie the old knot. My . bachelor days are over. Yes, sir. I finally found the right girl. Woman. I couldn't be happier." And so forth.

  So, that out of the way, Jack briefed us on the momentous issue at hand and said, "We have people checking with the FAA about flight plans for private aircraft. We're concentrating on private jets. We actually turned up the flight plan and the pilots who flew Khalil across the country. We interviewed the pilots. They flew out of Islip on Long Island. This would have been right after Khalil murdered McCoy and Satherwaite at the museum. They stopped in Colorado Springs, Khalil deplaned, but we know he didn't kill Colonel Callum."

  Jack went on about Khalil and his flight to Santa Monica. The pilots, according to Jack, were in shock now that they knew who their passenger was. This was interesting, but not that important. However, it did show Khalil to be resourceful and well financed. Plus, he could blend in okay. I said to Jack, "And you're trying to find out if Khalil has another private flight booked?"

  "Yes. But there are hundreds of private jets filing flight plans every day. We're concentrating on non-corporate and foreign corporate charters, flights paid for by suspicious means and by non-repeat customers, and customers who may appear foreign, and so on. It's a long, long shot. But we have to give it a try."

  "Right. How do you think this asshole is going to get out of the country?"

  "Good question. Canadian security is tight and cooperative, but I can't say the same for our Mexican neighbors."

  "I guess not with fifty thousand illegals crossing every month, not to mention tons of Mexican marching powder blowing across the border. Did you alert the DEA, Customs, and Immigration?"

  "Of course. And they've assigned extra personnel and so have we. It's going to be a rough month for drug dealers and illegals. Also, we've alerted the Coast Guard. It's a short boat hop from southern California to the beaches of Mexico. We've done everything we can in cooperation with several local and Federal agencies—as well as our Mexican allies—to intercept the suspect if he tries to flee across the U. S. - Mexican border."

  "Are you on TV now?"

  "No. Why?"

  "You sound like you're on TV."

  "That's the way I talk. That's the way you should talk tomorrow afternoon. Keep the fuck word to a minimum."

  I actually smiled.

  So, we discussed the subject of the manhunt for a while, and finally Jack said, "John, it's taken care of. And it's out of your hands."

  "Not quite. Look, I want to get back here as soon as this press conference is over tomorrow."

  "That's a reasonable request. Let's see how you do at the press conference."

  "One has nothing to do with the other."

  "It does now."

  "Okay. I get it."

  "Good. Tell me about your phone conversation with Asad Khalil."

  "Well, we didn't have a whole lot in common. Didn't someone brief you about that?"

  "Yes, but I want to get a feeling from you about Khalil's mood, his state of mind, the possibility that he might be heading home or staying around. That sort of thing."

  "Okay . . . I had the feeling I was talking to a man who was very much in control of himself and his emotions. Worse, he came across as though he were still in control of the situation, despite the fact that we fucked up his plans. I mean, that we thwarted his plans."

  Jack stayed silent a moment, then said, "Go on."

  "Well, if I had to bet, I'd bet that he was planning to stick around."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know. Just one of those feelings I get. By the way, speaking of bets, I want Nash's ten dollars, and his buddy Edward's twenty dollars."

  "But you said Khalil was in the New York area."

  "He was. Then he left, then he came back to Long Island. Point is, he didn't fly out to Sandland." I looked at Kate for support. This was important.

  Kate said, "John is right. He won the bets."

  Jack replied, "Okay. I'll accept Kate's impartial opinion." Ha, ha. Then Jack said, seriously, "So, John, you have a feeling now that Asad Khalil is still in your area?"

  "I do."

  "But this is just a feeling?"

  "If you mean am I holding something back, I'm not. Even I know when to come clean. But . . . how can I put this? . . . well . . . Khalil said to me that he sort of felt my presence before he . . . this is stupid. Mystical Sandland stuff. But I sort of feel this guy's presence. You know?"

  There was a long silence as Jack Koenig probably looked up the phone number of the Task Force psychiatric office. Finally, he said kindly, "Well, I've learned
not to bet money against you."

  I thought he was going to tell me to get some sleep, but instead he addressed Kate and asked, "Are you going to the L.A. office?"

  She replied, "Yes. I think it's a good idea to say hello, establish a working relationship, and see if we can be of any help when we return."

  "You have friends there, I understand."

  "I do."

  There may have been some subtext here regarding Kate's hour-long sexual history, but I wasn't jealous, and I wasn't going to be baited any longer. The hook was already in, the big fish had been reeled up and was now flopping around on the deck, gasping for air, to use an appropriate metaphor. So, Kate didn't need to use old boyfriends or suitors, such as Teddy, to get John to get off his ass and pop the question.

  Jack and Kate chatted a minute about some people they knew in common in L.A., then Jack said, "Okay, pick a flight to Dulles, but no later than the red-eye."

  Kate assured him we'd be on the red-eye at the latest.

  Jack was about to sign off, but it was time for my Columbo moment and I said, "Oh, one more thing."

  "Yes?"

  "The rifle."

  "What rifle?"

  "The rifle that was in the long package."

  "Oh . . . yes, I did question Mr. Rahman about that package. So has everyone else in L.A. and Washington."

  "And?"

  "Rahman and his family are under protective custody."

  "Good. That's where they belong. And?"

  "Well, the agents in L.A. made Rahman draw and describe the package. And they put together a box that Rahman says is the same size as the one he gave to Khalil, give or take an inch."

  "And?"

  "And, they put metal weights in the box until Rahman felt that the weight was about the same. Muscle memory. Are you familiar—"

  "Yeah. And?"

  "Well, it was an interesting experiment, but it proves nothing. Nylon and plastic stock rifles are light, older rifles are heavy. Hunting rifles are long, assault rifles are shorter. There's no way to determine if that was a rifle in the package."