The Lion's Game

  "Let me know how this turns out."

  I couldn't promise that, but I said, "If I find him, I'll let you know."

  Investigator Miller added, "And if he finds you, I'll see it on the news."

  Not funny, Investigator Miller.

  We hung up and I continued along the state highway, then exited onto the New York State Thruway, whose sign promised NEW YORK--50 MILES.

  I turned on the radio and scanned a few local channels to see if the psychotic skydiver had made the news, but I didn't hear anything. The newscaster went on to national news, and I was certain now that the skydiving incident would not be mentioned on the news.

  I tuned in to a New York City all-news station and listened for any mention of the Haytham murders or the murder of the livery driver, Charles Taylor, in Douglaston, Queens, or the Libyan taxi driver. I waited through the entire news cycle, but none of those murders were mentioned.

  So the FBI and the Task Force had done half their job; they'd kept the press in the dark and fed the local police bullshit. Now the Feds could control the search for Khalil and decide for themselves what to do with him if they caught him.

  The newspapers, with more space to fill, would have some ink on these murders, but I was pretty sure it would be straight reporting with no speculation and not a clue about any connections.

  I crossed into New Jersey and instantly the drivers became insane, weaving in and out, hitting their brakes for no reason, and signaling the opposite of what they were going to do. You're supposed to let your mind wander when you drive in New Jersey, so I took my mind off the road and thought about what Vince Paresi was saying to me.

  It occurred to me that this noon meeting in Walsh's office might actually be less about Asad Khalil and more about John Corey. Apparently I had become a problem.

  I don't usually get paranoid about my career because, one, I'm good at what I do, and two, I don't need the job. My old bud, Dick Kearns, formerly of the NYPD, is now a private background investigator, a big growth business since 9/11, and he's offered me a partnership. "Half the work, double the money, and no bosses and no bullshit."

  Sounds like a little bit of heaven. But for now, I really needed to stay with the Feds until Mr. Khalil and I interacted one last time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  As I approached the Holland Tunnel, I glanced at where the Towers once stood across the Hudson River. The geniuses involved with the World Trade Center reconstruction were still arguing about what to build there, and at the rate they were going, it would be two or three more years before the first I-beam was put in place. Meanwhile, the hole in the ground was a top tourist attraction, and a constant reminder of a very bad day.

  As I waited in line at the toll booths, a young uniformed Port Authority cop stopped me and said, "Just a security check, sir. Can I see your driver's license?"

  Why me? Do I look suspicious? It must be my big blue eyes. Meanwhile, Abdul in front of me is driving an eighteen-wheeler through the frickin' tunnel, filled with God-knows-what, and all he gets is a wave.

  "Sir?"

  I showed him my NYPD shield and my Federal ID, and he said to me, "Have a nice day, Detective."

  "Why me?"

  "It's just random. Every sixth vehicle."

  "Would you play the horses that way?"

  "I just do what I'm told. Have a nice day."

  I raised my window and moved into the tunnel. Well, I thought, don't just do what you're told. I don't. Show some initiative and common sense or you're going to lose that tunnel.

  I exited the tunnel and made my way through the busy streets of Lower Manhattan. There were parking spaces reserved for official government business along Broadway, though no parking was allowed in front of 26 Fed since 9/11. But for some inexplicable reason, there was parking allowed in front of 290 Broadway, the government building next door--Official Government Business, No Terrorists, No Car Bombs. I found a nice space in front of 290 and parked.

  While I was looking to see where Kate hid the parking permit--glove compartment? Under the driver's seat? Behind the sun visor?--a uniformed cop sauntered over and knocked on my window.

  I rolled down my window, and he said to me, "Official business only."

  "Right. I'm looking for my permit." I handed him my Fed creds and flashed my NYPD detective shield while I rummaged under the passenger seat. Why the hell does she pick a different place every time?

  The cop, whose name plate said "Timmons," handed me my creds and said, "Thank you, Detective."

  He was about to move off, but I took a shot and asked him, "Hey, do you know anything about the murder of a cab driver? Arab-American guy. Libyan. Happened... maybe yesterday."

  "Where?"

  "I don't know. How many Arab cab drivers have been murdered recently?"

  "One. Happened yesterday afternoon on Murray Street." He let me know, "We got a BOLO on the suspect."

  "You got a suspect?"

  "Yeah. I got a photo in the car."

  "Good. Hey, if you were a woman, where would you put the parking permit?"

  I thought he was going to say to me, "You're the detective," but he said, wisely, "I don't even want to go there."

  "Right. How'd this guy get clipped?"

  "Something like an ice pick in his head."

  "Ouch." I asked, "What was the victim's name?"

  He was wondering, I'm sure, why I didn't ask my boss these questions, and I thought he was going to ask to see my creds again, but he replied, "His name was Amir... some Arab name."

  "Maybe it's in her purse. Would she put it in her purse?"

  "I don't know. But you need it to park here or you're gonna get towed." He reminded me, "High-security zone."

  "Right. I work here." Car bomb towing zone. I asked Officer Timmons, "What was the name of the suspect?"

  "We don't have a name."

  "But you have a photo."

  "Right. But no name."

  Interesting. I asked him, "Where did the photo come from?"

  "I don't know." He said, "But we're looking for another Arab guy." He added, "Last seen wearing a dark blue sports jacket, tan pants, and a light blue shirt."

  The last time I saw Khalil, he was wearing a black jumpsuit with a matching helmet. I assumed this description was from the pilots, who were probably the only living people who could ID Khalil's clothing.

  I asked Officer Timmons, "Any particulars on the incident?"

  He replied, "Homicide Squad says it wasn't a robbery, so it looks like Abdul A knew Abdul B and maybe they had some sort of disagreement."

  "Right." I asked him, "If you don't have a name, how can you be sure the suspect was an Arab?"

  "That's what I was told." He added, "The guy in the photo is not Irish."

  Recalling the wanted poster, I asked, "Dark complexion, slicked-back hair, hooked nose, and crazy eyes?"

  "Yeah. I got it in the car. You want to see it?"

  "No."

  "It's on the floor," Timmons said.

  "You should have it on the dashboard."

  "No, your parking permit. It's on the floor behind you."

  "Really?" I twisted around and sure enough, there it was. Did I put it there?

  Anyway, the cop moved off. I retrieved the permit and put it in the windshield, locked the car, and began walking toward 26 Federal Plaza.

  It was a really nice day and everyone on the street seemed happy to be alive. Me too. I'll bet even Asad Khalil was happy to be alive. He had a good Sunday. Five dead. Almost six. And maybe a few more we didn't know about yet. Amazing.

  Well, assuming Amir the taxi driver was murdered by Khalil the asshole, then that put Khalil in Manhattan yesterday, a few blocks from here. So, first Sullivan County, then Republic Airport, then Douglaston, Queens, and then Manhattan. Like last time, he moved fast.

  Three years ago, Asad Khalil had come to America to murder the surviving United States Air Force pilots who had bombed his Tripoli neighborhood in 1986. The names of those pi
lots were supposed to be highly classified information, and no one in Washington wanted the American public, the American military, or the world to know that American security had been breached, and that American servicemen had been assassinated at home for doing their job overseas. Not good for troop morale or what it said about what we now called homeland security, and certainly not good for the image of American power.

  Therefore, Washington had kept a tight lid on those murders three years ago, and they had managed to keep the press from connecting them. The same thing was happening this time.

  This time, however, I understood what was happening. So the outcome would be different. Not necessarily better than last time, but different.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Outside of 26 Federal Plaza are guard booths, manned by the private firm of Wackenhut Security. This arrangement represents some very advanced thinking from Washington that goes by the name of outsourcing. I mean, why use highly trained Federal law officers who are sworn to duty, when for twice the money you can get a fat guy in a silly uniform who may have trouble getting his gun out of his holster? Call me cynical, but I think I see some people making money on these government contracts. Maybe I should outsource myself.

  Anyway, I made it through Wackenhut Security and entered 26 Federal Plaza through the Duane Street entrance.

  The big lobby inside was manned by a second echelon of security personnel, in this case an outfit called the FBI Police, who are uniformed officers and whose jurisdiction is strictly confined to Federal property. So if terrorists started shooting from the city sidewalk, theoretically all the FBI Police could do would be to watch from the windows and yell encouragement to the Wackenhut guys. I hoped somebody thought to call the NYPD.

  Anyway, I walked toward the security area that surrounded the elevator banks.

  Twenty-six Federal Plaza is, as the name suggests, a U.S. government building, and its 44 floors house various tax-eating agencies, most of them filled with civil servants who agonize over how best to serve the American public.

  Floors 22 through 29, however, are different; this is where the FBI and the Anti-Terrorist Task Force are located, along with other law enforcement and national security agencies that will go unnamed. Okay, I'll name one--the CIA. Actually, most of their offices are across Duane Street at 290 Broadway, a newer and nicer Federal building, but we are fortunate to have a few of our Comrades In Arms here at 26 Fed. Conversely, we have some ATTF personnel at 290 Broadway. The purpose of this, I assume, is to not put all our eggs in one basket in case a plane or a truck bomb takes out one of the buildings. A worse scenario would be both buildings. Shit happens. That's why we have Wackenhut. And that's why I have a St. Michael medal in my desk drawer.

  Anyway, also housed here at 26 Fed is the Bureau of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, who work closely with us to locate illegal aliens who could possibly be national security risks. They do a good job, especially since 9/11, but unfortunately they busted my Costa Rican cleaning lady last month, and I think it was Tom Walsh who tipped them off. Just kidding?

  I went up to the thick Plexiglas walls that surround the elevators and punched in my code to open the door. I know most of the FBI Police here and they know me, but to be respectful and proper I held up my Fed creds, and a guy named Walt said, "Sorry to hear about Detective Haytham and his family."

  "Me too." I asked him, "Any news on that?"

  He shook his head and replied, "Just what's in the papers." He added, "Damned shame. I mean, a cop getting killed by a robber."

  "Yeah." Walt didn't mention Kate's encounter with the psychotic skydiver, so I guess the word wasn't out on that yet.

  An elevator arrived, and I climbed aboard and pushed the button for the 28th floor where Tom Walsh has his big corner office.

  On the way up, I thought about Asad Khalil, who, in a manner of speaking, had called this meeting. This was a unique individual, possessed of some native intelligence and good primitive instincts. I needed to give him credit for his dedication to his mission and his ability to operate in an alien and hostile environment. I mean, the guy was a friggin' camel jockey who probably couldn't tell the difference between an ATM machine and a condom dispenser, and here he was in America jumping out of planes, chartering flights, whacking people in their homes and cars, and making us look stupid.

  True, he had been highly trained by Libyan Intelligence, and he had spent some time in Europe. But Libyan Intelligence is an oxymoron, and basically Khalil was an unsophisticated rube from a backward shithole of a country, so none of this was computing.

  True, he'd had some resources here then, and I was sure he had resources now, like the late Amir guy whose head Khalil mistook for a block of ice. But local Libyans were only part of the reason for Khalil's success; he had smarts and balls. Worse, he believed God was on his side. Still... that didn't explain his James Bond savvy and sophisticated M.O. And then it hit me.

  Boris.

  I stepped off the elevator and stood in the hallway.

  Boris. A former KGB guy, hired by Libyan Intelligence to train Asad Khalil.

  Boris had not only trained Khalil in the art of killing, deception, disguises, escape, and evasion; he'd also briefed him on how to get by in the Western world--practical things like making airline reservations, checking into a hotel, chartering a plane, renting a car, and all the other things Khalil had done here three years ago, and was doing now. Plus, Boris spoke nearly flawless English, learned at the old KGB School for American Studies, and he'd tutored his motivated student in the finer points of American English.

  And this brought me to my next thought: Khalil wanted to kill Boris.

  The first and only time I met Boris was at CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, three years ago, after Khalil had given us the slip. Boris had actually wanted to meet me and Kate, and we spent a pleasant hour chatting about the only thing we had in common: Asad Khalil.

  Boris had also indicated that the Libyans intended to terminate his employment--and his life--after he gave Khalil his last lesson. But Boris had gotten out of Libya alive, with a little help from the CIA, and when Kate and I met him, he was spilling the beans about Libyan Intelligence to his new CIA friends, and probably giving up some old KGB secrets while he was at it.

  And in return, according to standard CIA procedures, Boris would get an American passport and some other considerations, like maybe a lifetime supply of Marlboros and Stoli, which I recalled he seemed to enjoy.

  Boris (no last name, please) was an impressive man, and I would have liked to spend more time with him, but this was a one-shot deal, and he was surrounded by his CIA keepers, who acted like wives, kicking him under the table when he and the vodka said too much. In addition, Kate and I had a few FBI guys with us who also put some restrictions on the conversation. But I did remember that he said he always wanted to see New York, and that perhaps we'd meet again.

  I also recalled now the end of the conversation when Boris, speaking of Asad Khalil, said to me and Kate, "That man is a perfect killing machine, and what he doesn't kill today, he will kill tomorrow."

  I'd kind of figured that out for myself, but to be contrary, I had replied, "He's just a man."

  To which Boris replied, "Sometimes I wonder."

  Apparently, Asad Khalil, The Lion, had taken on mythological proportions in the minds of his friends and his enemies--just like Carlos the Jackal had--so if I could get my hands on Khalil and cut his throat, then I'd be known as John Corey, Lion Killer. Better than John Corey, Loose Cannon. Right? Tom Walsh and I would fly to Washington for dinner in the White House. We're serving pigs-in-a-blanket especially for you, Mr. Corey.

  Or, the people in Washington might not have such a positive response to me killing Khalil. We're charging you with pre-meditated murder, Detective Corey. Pre-meditated? I only thought about it three years ago.

  Anyway, Boris had ended our tea-and-vodka hour with these words: "I congratulate you both on your survival. Don't waste any of yo
ur days."

  Thanks for the advice. I hope Boris had taken his own advice. Bottom line on Boris--I liked him, but I didn't like what he'd done, which was to create a monster. And I was sure that Boris was going to regret this himself--if he hadn't already met his monster.

  But if Boris was alive, then I needed to find him and warn him that his former student was back in the USA to settle some old scores. Of course, I should assume that the CIA had already done this for their defector, but with those guys you never knew who they had no further use for.

  Aside from my benevolent motive of wanting to warn Boris, I also wanted to speak to him about how best to find Asad Khalil. Boris should have a few thoughts on that. Probably, though, he'd advise me, "Bend over and kiss your ass good-bye."

  And finally, if Boris was not yet dead, then he would make good bait. Better him than me. Right?

  Actually, there was a lot of bait out there for The Lion--me, Boris, George Foster, and probably other people we didn't know about. Plus, Kate, if Khalil discovered she was alive.

  And of course there was Chip Wiggins, retired U.S. Air Force officer whose bombing mission over Libya had started this unhappy chain of events. I was fairly certain, however, that Chip Wiggins had by now met up with Asad Khalil, and thus had finally met his inevitable fate. What he doesn't kill today, he will kill tomorrow. I was sure I'd hear the results of our search for Wiggins at this meeting.

  I opened the hallway door with my pass code, and as I walked toward Tom Walsh's office, I thought about forgetting to mention Boris at this meeting. I mean, the FBI does this to me. Right? Like the Iranian diplomat going to Atlantic City. What goes around comes around.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Tom Walsh's secretary, Kathy, greeted me and said, "Mr. Walsh will be arriving shortly. Go right in and have a seat."

  "Thanks." Forgetting protocol, I asked her, "Where is he?"

  She hesitated, then said, "Across the street."

  Which meant 290 Broadway, which could mean the CIA.