The Lion's Game

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Asad Khalil sat alone on a bench in Battery Park, so named, he understood, because this southern tip of Manhattan Island once held forts and artillery batteries to protect the city. Now it was a pleasant park with views across the bay, and the enemy was inside the city.

  He opened a bottle of water that he had bought from a street vendor and took a long drink, then used some of the water to wash specks of Amir's blood from his right hand.

  He put the bottle in his bag for possible future use, then retrieved the cell phones of the two dead Federal agents. He turned on the phones and saw they still had service, which surprised him. It was possible, he thought, that the police or the FBI had not yet noticed that the phones were missing. The Americans, in true cowboy fashion, always worried first about the guns.

  He accessed the text messages on Haytham's phone and saw one new message, from PARESI, CAPT., ATTF/NYPD.

  This was the man, he knew, who was the superior of Corey. Khalil read the message and saw that it was a short command, calling the police detectives to duty, and instructing them to begin surveillance of the Muslim community WITH SPECIAL EMPHASIS ON THE LIBYAN COMMUNITY.

  This was to be expected and it did not cause him any alarm. His potential contacts in America were not all Libyans; there were his Al Qaeda friends from other Islamic nations. His only Libyan contacts so far had been Farid in California, and Amir here in New York, and both of them were now in Paradise, far beyond American surveillance.

  There were no other messages on Haytham's phone, and he shut it off.

  He accessed the text messages on Mayfield's phone and saw a new text from Walsh. It read: TO ALL FBI AGENTS AND NYPD DETECTIVES: TWO LIBYAN INFORMANTS IN NY METRO HAVE COME FORWARD WITH INFO ON SUSPECT KHALIL IN CONUS. CHECK E-MAIL FOR DETAILS AND OPERATIONAL INSTRUCTION REGARDING APPREHENDING SUSPECT. WALSH, SAC, ATTF/NY.

  He shut off Mayfield's phone and thought about this. If this was true, it presented some problems to him and to his mission. In fact, he would not know who to trust.

  He realized, though, that if this message from Walsh had been sent to all agents and all detectives, then it should have appeared on Haytham's screen. But it had not. And Walsh did not know at the time he sent his message that he, Asad Khalil, would have Haytham's phone in his possession. So why was the message not on Haytham's phone? And why was it on Mayfield's phone? She was dead when the message was sent.

  Therefore, he thought, this was a false message, sent only to Mayfield's cell phone, which Walsh must now suspect was in the hands of Asad Khalil. And this was why Mayfield's phone was still in service.

  He sat back on the bench and stared out at the sunlit water. So perhaps they were being clever. But not clever enough.

  Or... possibly it was a true message, but not actually sent to all detectives and agents despite the heading. Perhaps they did not trust Haytham. Or perhaps Haytham was not included for some other reason.

  In truth, Khalil did not know all there was to know about the inner workings of the Task Force, which was not as well known to Libyan Intelligence--or to his new friends in Al Qaeda--as was the FBI, for instance.

  In any case, this message had all the tell-tale signs of disinformation, and that was how he would regard it, which would please Boris, who had spent days teaching him about this. Boris had said, "The British are masters of disinformation, the Americans have learned from them, the French think they invented it, and the Germans are not subtle enough to put out a good lie. As for the Italians, your former colonial masters, they believe their own disinformation and act on it." Boris had concluded his lecture with, "But the best disseminators of disinformation in the world are the KGB."

  Khalil had not wanted to insult his trainer by challenging him, but he had nevertheless reminded Boris that the KGB no longer existed, and so perhaps the word "are" should be replaced with "were."

  Boris had gotten used to Khalil's insults, subtle and otherwise, and only laughed at them between glasses of vodka. Malik had advised Khalil to be easier on the Russian, saying, "He is a lost soul from a lost empire--the godless and godforsaken human wreckage of a sunken ship who has washed up on our shores. Use him, Khalil, but pity him. He will never leave here alive."

  But he had left Libya, with the assistance of the CIA, and Boris had then sold himself to the Americans and done for them what he had done for Libyan Intelligence: betrayed secrets for money. And nearly betrayed Asad Khalil. But the day of judgment was now at hand for Boris.

  The message from Walsh was undoubtedly a lie, but Khalil had to act as though it might be true. That was what Boris always advised.

  As for Mayfield, they had kept her phone alive, but he was certain they had not kept her alive. There was too much blood, and it gushed from her throat as she floated to the earth. He was a good judge of this; he had seen--and caused--bleeding like this, and it always ended in death. And if by chance or Fate it didn't, then the mind was damaged, and that was far worse than the death of the body. He wondered what Allah did with these impaired people whose spirits could neither ascend into Paradise nor be banished to Hell. Perhaps, he thought, there was a place for these souls to dwell while awaiting their ultimate destination--a place where dead minds controlled aimless bodies--a place not unlike an American shopping mall.

  Khalil returned to his surroundings. A breeze blew from the water, and the park was filled with people on this pleasant day. He watched them as they walked and ran, rode bicycles, and skated by. A couple sitting on the bench across from him was engaged in an immodest embrace.

  On another bench, two men in shorts sat too close, drinking bottled water, talking and smiling. Khalil had seen men like this in Europe but never in Libya, or anywhere in the Islamic world.

  Despite his years in Europe, and his brief visit to America, he had not gotten accustomed to this display of public affection, of bare flesh, and of the easy mingling of males and females--or men with men, and women with women. This was not God-pleasing, and it caused him to wonder how such a dissolute people continued to remain wealthy and powerful.

  And then he thought again of the Romans. A guide in the Roman Museum in Tripoli had said, "They squandered the hard-won wealth of their forefathers and lived like maggots on the decaying corpse of their empire."

  Yes, Khalil thought, and when they could no longer find good men to fill their legions or do the work of the empire, they paid the barbarians to do it for them. And then the gold ran out.

  He opened a bag of peanuts that he had purchased from the street vendor, and cracked open a shell and ate the nuts, realizing he hadn't eaten since before dawn.

  Pigeons soon began to congregate, and he threw a few nuts at them and they became excited. He watched them as they competed for the food and noticed that some were more aggressive than others, while some simply held back and did not even attempt to compete.

  He threw more nuts, these still in their shells, and observed that the birds understood what they had to do to get the nuts and pecked at the shells--but they kept cocking their heads from side to side, looking for the nuts that had been shelled for them. Their birds, too, are lazy. He smiled.

  Not far from where he sat was Wall Street, the center of American financial power. There was much debate among the jihadists about targeting this street for a future attack. Some said it was necessary, and that it would cripple the American economy. Others said that Wall Street, left intact and functioning, would do more damage to the American economy than a hundred bombs. Still others said it would soon collapse on its own.

  Khalil agreed with the last assessment. The nuts were running out.

  He took his binoculars from his bag and looked across the bay at the green statue that seemed to stand on the water. This, he knew, was perhaps the most iconic of American symbols; the most recognizable and most representative monument of what was called the American Dream, and the American promise. And he had been told that all Americans, regardless of their political affiliation, or their nat
ional origin, or their status in society, revered this statue. This, then, could be the intended target that would be revealed to him shortly.

  He continued to stare at the green statue--this woman in robes, holding a torch in her hand--and he saw her toppling off her stone pedestal, falling face-first into the water. Yes, that would be a fitting farewell--a permanent reminder to the Americans of his visit, and an astounding image to be broadcast around the world.

  He lowered the binoculars and extended an open hand filled with nuts, and a pigeon approached cautiously. As the bird lowered its head and took a kernel, Khalil wrapped his hand around the pigeon's head and crushed its neck.

  PART V

  New York City

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I slept in the chair in Kate's room, and at dawn I went out to the parking lot, found my Jeep, and collected some clothes from my luggage. Back in ICU, I dressed and sat beside Kate's bed and watched her sleeping. A nurse came in to check her chart, and I asked her to put my bloodstained jumpsuit into a plastic bag and give it to the State Troopers, who probably wanted it for evidence. Maybe they didn't, but I didn't want it, and hopefully I'd never need or see another jumpsuit for the rest of my life.

  Kate woke up and she was looking remarkably well for having been at death's door, but the attending physician wanted to keep the ventilator going, so she still couldn't speak, but she wrote me notes. One said, Find Khalil before he finds you.

  I assured her, "I will."

  But in fact, I had not been his next target, as expected. Vince Paresi had telephoned me yesterday afternoon with the news about Gabe Haytham and his wife and daughter. The death of one of our own, along with his family, in his own home, had completely changed this case from an attempted murder of a Federal agent to... well, something quite different. I won't say that the hunters had become the hunted, but it certainly looked that way.

  I knew Gabe, and I liked him and respected him, and he had been very helpful to me the last time Asad Khalil was in town. I guess Khalil knew that, too--or Khalil simply knew of an Arab-American on the Task Force and decided that Gabe Haytham was a traitor and deserved to die. But why did he kill Gabe's wife and daughter? Because they happened to be home? No, Khalil planned it that way. In his world, there were no innocent civilians. Anyway, Paresi had also told me that the crime scene investigator said it appeared that Gabe fought back. Good for you, Gabe.

  I suppose I could blame myself for not thinking of Gabe Haytham sooner... and when I did, maybe I should have been more forceful with Paresi. But I wasn't going to beat myself up with this; I was going to find Asad Khalil and bring him to justice. Or, as we were saying more and more these days among ourselves, we would bring justice to them.

  In any case, I didn't tell Kate about the murder of the Haytham family. I would, but not yet.

  Kate wrote me a note. How are you doing?

  I replied, "Fine. Just a little depressed about missing the next two jumps."

  She wrote, I want to jump again.

  "Great." We'll leave the Libyan terrorist home next time. I wondered if I could sue Craig for letting Asad Khalil into the club.

  Another nurse arrived to check Kate's monitors and IVs and whatever, and I used the time to think about this case.

  As for news coverage of the Haytham family's murder, according to Paresi the NYPD, on the strong advice of the U.S. Department of Justice, was investigating the case as a home invasion by a person or persons unknown, motive unknown. We could get away with that for maybe a week before the press got a tip or got nosy. Or until another Federal agent turned up dead. Like me.

  Since I've been in Federal law enforcement, however, it's been a little easier to mushroom--keeping the press in the dark and feeding them shit--if there's a national security angle.

  Also, since 9/11, the Feds had gotten what amounted to wartime powers under the Patriot Act and other less well-known legislation. And legislation aside, the attitudes in the Justice Department had changed, and the people in the field doing the actual work had become more aggressive and more tight-lipped with the news media.

  As for media coverage about what happened here in Sullivan County, that was fairly easy to manage. First, it happened in the middle of nowhere, and second, it looked to witnesses like an attack by a psychotic--which it actually was. As for the victim, her name was being withheld by the authorities. End of press release.

  On the subject of sharing and disseminating information, I told Kate I'd call her parents and tell them what happened, without worrying them, of course. Something like, "Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Mayfield, your daughter had her throat cut by an Islamic terrorist, but she's fine now."

  Kate wrote to me, in her neat handwriting, No, I will call them when I get this fucking tube out of my throat.

  I said, "Please watch the swearing."

  She wrote, See if you can get me a laptop so I can e-mail and get on the Internet.

  I didn't want her reading about the Haythams, so I fibbed, "No laptops allowed in ICU. They emit microwaves and stuff that will screw up everyone's monitors."

  She seemed to buy that, so maybe it was true.

  Anyway, Dr. Goldberg arrived to check on his patient and he was all smiles. It's kind of neat saving someone's life, and it probably makes you feel very good inside. As a homicide detective, almost every crime victim I've seen was on the way to the morgue, not the hospital. And to be up front, I've put a few perpetrators in both places, and it never felt good. Well... sometimes it did.

  On the subject of rough justice, I recalled again my last conversation with Asad Khalil on Kate's cell phone, three years ago. He'd said to us, "I just wanted to say good-bye and to remind you that I will be back."

  He had apparently developed a strong personal dislike of me and of Kate as well. And to be frank, we didn't like him either. I mean, the asshole was trying to kill us. Not surprisingly, our professional relationship--lawbreaker and law enforcer--had deteriorated into an unhealthy personal animus. Asad Khalil had given up on his planned mission and I'd given up trying to arrest him; the new game was called Kill the Other Guy. Simple.

  So when he told me three years ago that he'd be back, I had replied with enthusiasm, "Looking forward to a rematch."

  That's when he said to me, "I will kill you and kill that whore you are with, if it takes me all of my life."

  I looked at Kate in the bed, and I recalled that she wasn't real happy with Asad Khalil calling her a whore. And, you know, I don't blame her. On the other hand, there are cultural differences to consider, and as I'd explained to her then, she, as a Federal employee, needed to be sensitive to Asad Khalil's more traditional upbringing regarding gender roles. Hopefully we could resolve these differences before I killed him.

  Dr. Goldberg was speaking and he seemed happy with his patient's progress. He assured us that Kate could be moved by medical helicopter to the city in about two days, then a few more days in the hospital, then home, and back to duty within a month. Sounded good, but I could tell that Kate thought that was too long.

  After Dr. Goldberg left, she wrote to me, I want to be back to work next week.

  I replied, "Let's get you home first. I need to evaluate the extent of your mental impairment."

  She tried to flash me the peace sign, but in her weakened condition, she only managed to raise her middle finger.

  I wanted to get on the road and get back to work, but I spent another half hour with her. She scribbled a lot of questions regarding what was going on with the case, and I told her what I knew, except about the death of the Haytham family. I also didn't tell her that her cell phone and gun were missing and probably in the hands of her assailant. That kind of thing really gets to a cop or an FBI agent, and though Kate was not at fault, she'd take it badly. Neither did I want to get into exactly what happened after we stepped out of the aircraft, but I knew from her written questions that she was searching for some kind of reassurance that she had done all she could in regard to Asad Khalil getting the upper ha
nd on her. This was a matter of ego--she felt, like most assault victims, violated. Also her professional pride was wounded. Daddy was an FBI agent and his little girl could hold her own with the big bad meanies and all that.

  So I said to her, honestly, "He's bigger and stronger than you. Plus he planned this and he's not stupid. You did all you could, and you saved your own life by deflecting the knife. It's a draw. We'll win the next round."

  She nodded to herself, then wrote, I tried to knee him in the nuts, but he had his legs wrapped around mine.

  "That's why he had his legs wrapped around yours."

  I took the opportunity to tell her that the EMS team had performed spectacularly and that I would send a note to their supervisor.

  She nodded.

  I certainly didn't want to blow my own horn and tell her about how I had bravely risked my own life to get her into free fall so she wouldn't bleed to death. And neither would I mention that I had quickly and expertly stopped her bleeding for a crucial minute before the EMS arrived. No, John Corey is a modest man and seeing Kate alive and healthy was all the reward I needed for my heroic actions.

  I was sure, however, that Kate would want to read my full incident report, in which I was obligated to recount all these things in some detail. Plus, she might want to see the videotape of the jump. Then she would draw her own conclusions about her husband's bravery and quick thinking. And I, of course, would say, "Just doing my job." I might also mention that Craig fainted when he saw her bleeding.

  I said to her, "Well, I really have to get to the office so I can write my incident report." Apparently her mind was elsewhere, so I added, "There's a lot to tell."

  She nodded absently, then wrote on her pad and showed it to me. It said, I want to kill him.