Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2]

by Lions Game(Lit)

  On Day Three of our hospital stay, four gentlemen arrived from Washington, representatives they said of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, though one of the guys smelled like CIA. Kate and I were well enough to meet them in a private visitors room. They took statements from us, of course, because that's what they do. They love to take statements, but rarely make any statements of their own.

  They did say, however, that Asad Khalil was still not in FBI custody, which may have been technically true. I mentioned to these gentlemen that Mr. Khalil swore to kill Kate and me if it took the rest of his life.

  They told Kate and me not to be overly concerned, don't talk to strangers, and be home before the streetlights came on, or something like that. We made a tentative appointment to meet in Washington when we felt up to it. Happily, no one mentioned a press conference.

  Related to that subject, we were reminded that we'd signed various oaths, pledges, and so forth, limiting our rights to make public statements, and swearing to safeguard all information that related to national security. In other words, don't speak to the press or we'll chew your asses up so bad, those bullet wounds on your butts will look like little zits by comparison.

  This wasn't exactly a threat because the government does not threaten its citizens, but it was a fair warning.

  I reminded my colleagues that Kate and I were heroes, but no one seemed to know anything about that. I then announced to the four gentlemen that it was time for my enema, and they left.

  On the subject of the press again, the attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan was reported in all the news media, but it was played down, and the official statement from Washington was, "The former President's life was never in danger." No mention was made of Asad Khalil—the lone individual involved was unknown—and no one seemed to get the connection between the dead pilots and the assassination attempt. That would change, of course, but as Alan Parker would say, "A third today, a third tomorrow, and the rest when reporters start squeezing our nuts."

  On Day Four of our stay in Santa Barbara County Hospital, Mr. Edward Harris, CIA colleague of Ted Nash, showed up all by himself, and we received him in the private visitors room. He, too, reminded us not to speak to the press, and suggested that we'd had a bad shock, loss of blood, and all that, and therefore our memories weren't to be trusted.

  Kate and I had previously discussed this, and we assured Mr. Harris that we couldn't even remember what we had for lunch. I also said to him, "I don't even know why I'm in the hospital. The last thing I remember is driving to Kennedy Airport to pick up a defector."

  Edward looked a bit skeptical, and he said, "Don't overdo it."

  I informed Mr. Harris, "I won that twenty-dollar bet from you. And ten from Ted."

  He gave me a sort of funny look, which seemed inappropriate. I think it had to do with the mention of Ted's name.

  I should say at this point that nearly everyone who visited us acted as though they had some information that we didn't have, but that we could have it if we asked. So I asked Edward, "Where's Ted?"

  Edward let a few seconds pass, then informed us, "Ted Nash is dead."

  I wasn't totally surprised, but I was shocked nonetheless.

  Kate was stunned, too, and asked, "How?"

  Edward replied, "He was discovered, after you were found, on the Reagan ranch. He had a bullet wound through his forehead and died instantly." Edward added, "We recovered the bullet and ballistics prove conclusively that it was from the same rifle that Asad Khalil used to fire at you."

  Kate and I sat there, not knowing what to say.

  I did feel badly, but if Ted were in the room, I'd tell him the obvious—When you play with fire, you get burned. When you play with lions, you get eaten.

  Kate and I passed on our condolences, me wondering why Ted's death had not yet made the news.

  Edward suggested, as Ted had done, that we might be happy working for the Central Intelligence Agency.

  I didn't think this kind of happiness was at all possible, but when you're dealing with slick, you have to be slicker. I said to Edward, "We can talk. Ted would have liked that."

  Again, I detected a bit of skepticism from Edward, but he said, "The pay is better. You can pick any foreign duty station and be guaranteed a five-year posting. Together. Paris, London, Rome, your pick."

  This sounded a little like a bribe, which is a whole lot better than a threat. Point was, we knew too much, and they knew we knew too much. I told Edward, "I've always wanted to live in Lithuania. Kate and I will talk it over."

  Edward wasn't used to being jerked around, and he got real cool and left.

  Kate reminded me, "You shouldn't smart-ass those people."

  "I don't often get the opportunity."

  She sat silently a moment, then said, "Poor Ted."

  I wondered if he was really dead, so I couldn't work through the grieving process with any enthusiasm. I said to Kate, "Invite him to the wedding anyway. You never know."

  By Day Five in the hospital, I figured if I stayed there any longer, I'd never recover physically or mentally, so I checked myself out, which made my government health insurance rep happy. In fact, I could have left after Day Two, considering my fairly minor hip and thigh wounds, but the Feds had wanted me to stay, and so did Kate, whose injury needed more time to heal.

  I said to Kate, "Ventura Inn Beach Resort. See you there." And off I went, with a bottle of antibiotics and some really neat painkillers.

  Someone had actually sent my clothes out for cleaning, and the suit had come back cleaned and pressed, with the two bullet holes sort of mended or crocheted or something. The bloodstains were still faintly visible on the suit, and on my blue shirt and tie, though my shorts and socks were nice and fresh. A hospital van took me to Ventura.

  I felt like a vagrant, checking into the Ventura Inn, without luggage, not to mention stained clothes, and spaced out on painkillers. But Mr. American Express soon put things right, and I got California duds, swam in the ocean, watched X-Files reruns, and spoke to Kate twice a day on the phone.

  Kate joined me a few days later, and we took some medical leave at the Ventura Inn, and I worked on my tan and learned to eat avocados.

  Anyway, Kate had this teensy bikini, and she soon realized that scars don't tan. Guys think scars are badges of honor. Women don't. But I kissed the boo-boo every night, and she became less self-conscious. In fact, she started showing off the entry and exit wounds to some cabana boys, who thought a bullet wound was really cool.

  Kate, between cabana boys and war stories, tried to teach me how to surf, but I think you have to have capped teeth and bleached hair to do it right.

  So, we got to know each other better in the two weeks trial honeymoon that we spent in Ventura, and by silent mutual consent, we realized we were made for one another. For instance, Kate assured me she loved watching football games on TV, liked sleeping with the window open in the winter, preferred Irish pubs instead of fancy restaurants, hated expensive clothes and jewelry, and would never change her hairstyle. I believed every word, of course. I promised to stay the same. That was easy.

  All good things must come to an end, and in mid-May, we returned to New York and our jobs at 26 Federal Plaza.

  There was a little office party for us, as is the custom, and dopey speeches were made, toasts were proposed to our dedication to the job, to our full recovery, and, of course, to our engagement and long, happy lives together. Everyone loves a love story. It was the longest night of my life.

  To make the evening more fun, Jack pulled me aside and said, "I used your thirty bucks, and also Ted's and Edward's bets toward the caterer's bill. I knew you wouldn't mind."

  Right. And Ted would have wanted it that way.

  All things considered, I'd rather be back in Homicide North, but that wasn't going to happen. Captain Stein and Jack Koenig assured me that I had a brilliant future ahead of me on the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, despite a stack of formal complaints lodged against me by various in
dividuals and organizations.

  Upon our return to duty, Kate announced that she was rethinking things—not about the marriage, but about the engagement ring. She put me to work on something called The Invitation List. Also, I found Minnesota on a map. It's a whole state. I faxed copies of the map to my buds on the NYPD to show them.

  A few days after our return, we made the mandatory trip to the J. Edgar Hoover Building and spent three days with these nice people from Counterterrorism, who listened to our whole story, then repeated it to us, in a slightly different form. We all got our stories straight, and Kate and I signed affidavits, statements, transcripts, and stuff until everyone was happy.

  I suppose we caved in a little, but we got a major promise from them that might put things right some day.

  On the fourth day of our Washington trip, we were taken to CIA Headquarters at Langley, Virginia, where we met Edward Harris and others. It wasn't a long visit, and we were in the company of four FBI people, who did most of the talking for us. I wish these people could just learn to get along.

  The only interesting thing about this Langley visit was our meeting with an extraordinary man. He was an ex-KGB guy, and his name was Boris, the same Boris that Ted had mentioned to us at the VORTAC.

  There seemed to be no purpose to the meeting, other than the fact that Boris wanted to meet us. But in the hour that we spoke, I got the feeling that this guy had seen and done more in his life than all of us in that room combined. Boris was a big dude, chain-smoked Marlboros, and was overly nice to my fiancee.

  He talked a little about his KGB days, then gave us a few tidbits about his second career with Libyan Intelligence. He mentioned that he'd given Khalil a few tips about his trip to America. Boris was curious about how we got on to Asad Khalil and all that.

  I'm not in the habit of spilling a lot of information to foreign intelligence officers, but the guy played one-for-one with us, and if Kate or I answered his question, he'd answer ours. I could have spoken to this guy for days, but we had other people in the room, and once in a while, they'd tell one of us not to reply, or to change the subject. What happened to freedom of speech?

  Anyway, we all had a little nip of vodka together, and inhaled secondhand smoke.

  One of the CIA boys announced that it was time to leave, and we all stood. I said to Boris, "We should meet again."

  He shrugged and made a motion toward his CIA friends.

  We shook hands, and Boris said to Kate and me, "That man is a perfect killing machine, and what he doesn't kill today, he will kill tomorrow."

  "He's just a man," I replied.

  "Sometimes I wonder." He added, "In any case, I congratulate you both on your survival. Don't waste any of your days."

  I was sure this was just another Russian expression and had nothing to do with the subject of Asad Khalil. Right?

  Kate and I returned to New York, and neither of us mentioned Boris again. But I'd really like to have a whole bottle of vodka with that guy some day. Maybe I'd issue him a subpoena. Maybe that wasn't a good idea.

  The weeks passed, and still no word from Asad Khalil, and no happy news out of Libya concerning Mr. Gadhafi's sudden demise.

  Kate never got her cell phone number changed, and I still have the same direct dial at 26 Federal Plaza, and we're waiting for a call from Mr. Khalil.

  Better than that, Stein and Koenig—as part of our deal with the folks in Washington—instructed us to form a special team consisting of me, Kate, Gabe, George Foster, and a few other people whose sole mission is to find and apprehend Mr. Asad Khalil. I also put in a request to the NYPD to transfer my old partner, Dom Fanelli, to the ATTF. He's fighting it, but I'm an important person now, and I'll have Dom in my clutches soon. I mean, he's responsible for me being in the ATTF, and one good screwing deserves another. It'll be like old times.

  There will be no CIA people on this new team, which improves our odds a lot.

  This special team is probably the only thing that kept me on this screwed-up job. I mean, I take that guy's threat seriously, and it's a very simple matter of kill or be killed. None of us on the team intend to take Asad Khalil alive, and Asad Khalil himself does not intend to be taken alive, so it works out well for everyone.

  I called Robin, my ex, and informed her of my upcoming marriage.

  She wished me well and advised me, "Now you can change your stupid answering machine message." "Good idea."

  She also said, "If you catch this guy Khalil someday, throw the case my way."

  I'd been through this little game with her regarding the perps who plugged me on West 102nd Street, so I said, "Okay, but I want ten percent of the fee."

  "You got it. And I'll blow the case, and he goes up for life."

  "It's a deal."

  So, that out of the way, I thought I should call former lady friends and tell them I had a full-time roommate, soon to be my wife. But I didn't want to make those phone calls, so I sent e-mails, cards, and faxes instead. I actually got a few replies, mostly condolences for the bride-to-be. I didn't share any of these with Kate.

  The Big Day approached, and I wasn't nervous. I'd already been married, and I'd faced death many times. I don't mean there are any actual similarities between getting married and getting shot at, but . . . there may be.

  Kate was pretty cool about the whole thing, though she'd never walked The Last Mile down the aisle before. She seemed really on top of the situation and knew what had to be done, and when it had to be done, and who had to do what, and all that. I think this knowledge is not learned, but it has something to do with the X chromosome.

  All kidding aside, I was happy, contented, and more in love than I'd ever been. Kate Mayfield was a remarkable woman, and I knew we'd live happily ever after. I think what I liked about her was that she accepted me for what I was, which is actually not too difficult, considering how nearly perfect I am.

  Also, we'd shared an experience that was as profound and defining as any two people can share, and we'd done it well. Kate Mayfield was brave, loyal, and resourceful, and unlike myself, she was not yet cynical or world-weary. She was, in fact, a patriot, and I can't say the same for myself. I may have been once, but too much has happened to me and to the country in my lifetime. Yet, I do the job.

  My biggest regret regarding this whole mess—aside from my obvious regret over the loss of life—is that I don't think we learned anything from any of this.

  Like me, the country has always been lucky and has always managed to dodge the fatal bullet. But luck, as I've learned on the streets and at the gambling tables, and in love, runs out. And if it's not too late, you face facts and reality, and come up with a plan of survival that does not include any luck.

  Speaking of which, it rained on our wedding day, which I discovered is supposed to mean good luck. I think it means you get wet.

  Nearly all of my friends and family had made the trek to this small town in Minnesota, and most of them behaved better than they had at my first wedding. Of course, there were a few incidents with my unmarried NYPD buds being outrageous with these blond-haired, blue-eyed Wendys—including the incident of Dom Fanelli with the maid of honor, which I will not get into—but that's to be expected.

  Kate's family were real WASPs, the minister was a Methodist, and a stand-up comedian. He made me promise to love, honor, and never again mention the X-Files.

  It was a double ring ceremony; one ring for Kate's finger, one ring through my nose. I guess that's enough marriage jokes. In fact, I've been told that's enough.

  Midwestern WASPs come in two varieties—wet and dry. These people were into the sauce, so we got along really well. Pop was an okay guy, Mom was a looker, and so was Sis. My mother and father told them lots of stories about me, which they thought were funny as opposed to abnormal. This was going to be all right.

  In any case, Kate and I did a week in Atlantic City, then a week along the California coast. We'd arranged to meet Gene Barlet at Rancho del Cielo, and the drive up into the moun
tains was a lot nicer than the last time. So was the ranch, looking better in the sunlight, sans sniper.

  We went back to the boulder, which looked much smaller than I remembered it. Gene took photos, including an R-rated shot of Kate's wound, and we gathered up some stone chips at Gene's insistence.

  Gene pointed to the distant treeline and said, "We found fifty-two shell casings on the ground. I've never heard of so many shots being fired by a sniper at two people. That guy really wanted what he couldn't have."

  I think he was telling us that the game wasn't over. The treeline was making me a little nervous, so we moved on. Gene showed us where Ted Nash had been found on a riding trail, less than a hundred meters from the VORTAC, with a single round through his forehead. I have no idea where Ted was going, or what he was doing there in the first place, and we'd never know.

  Considering we were on our honeymoon, I suggested we'd seen enough, and we went back to the ranch house, had a Coke, ate a few jelly beans, and moved on to points north.

  We had left Kate's cell phone back in New York, not wanting any calls from friends or assassins on our honeymoon. But just as a precaution, we both brought our guns along.

  You never know.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Because of the nature of the material in this novel, some of the individuals whom I would like to thank here have asked to remain anonymous. I respect that request, and acknowledge their contributions with gratitude.

  I would like to thank, first of all, Thomas Block, childhood friend, US Airways captain, Flying magazine contributing editor, co-author of Mayday, and author of six other novels, for his invaluable assistance with "airplane stuff" and other stuff. As always, Tom came through when I was up in the air without a propeller.

  Thanks, too, to Sharon Block, former Braniff International and US Airways flight attendant, for reading the manuscript and taking my side in editorial arguments with her husband.

  Special thanks to Joint Terrorist Task Force members, and good friends NYPD Detectives Kenny Hieb and John Gallagher (ret.), and also to Detective Tom Pistone for his connections.