The Lion's Game

  As for Boris's CIA conspiracy theory... well, Boris wasn't the first person to think that there were people who would welcome another attack. But welcoming an attack and conspiracy to instigate one were very different things.

  My other thought was that I shouldn't be conspiring with Boris Korsakov, former KGB assassin. But sometimes you have to partner up with a bad guy. As the Arabs say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Plus, I doubled the chances that Khalil would wind up dead before he could set off a weapon of mass destruction. Or kill me. And that was the goal. I'd worry later about explaining all this to Tom Walsh if I had to.

  I finished my beer and looked out at the buildings across the street. If Khalil was there, then I was a tempting target. But I recalled my dream, which came to me as the sum total of everything I knew about this man, how he'd killed before, and who he was. So we'd meet--probably at a time and place of his choosing, not mine--but we'd definitely meet.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  At 5:30, I took a taxi to 26 Federal Plaza.

  I spent a few hours at my desk, catching up on e-mails and memos and listening to voice mail. There was nothing pertaining to Asad Khalil, which reinforced my conclusion that this was a very tightly controlled case. As for all the other cases that I--and Kate--had been working on, it appeared that they'd been parceled out to other detectives and agents. So, was I still working here? I guess I was until the Khalil case was settled, one way or the other.

  I didn't see Tom Walsh, which reinforced my suspicion that he was distancing himself from me and from the operation--but not so far that he couldn't be on the scene if I killed or captured the wanted Libyan terrorist. I wondered, though, if he'd show up if I got whacked and Khalil got away. No photo op there. In any case, if I'd seen him, I'm sure I would have told him about Boris. Unless it slipped my mind.

  At 8 P.M., I met with Paresi and Stark, and we went over the operation in detail.

  At 9 P.M. I left 26 Federal Plaza, pretty much as I'd been dressed the night before, except this time I had a Yankees cap on--so if I ran into Khalil, he could shout, "Die, Yankee!"

  I made the short walk down to the Trade Center site, and noticed that the observation platform had a locked gate at the entrance, and the surrounding area--which had been devastated when the Towers collapsed--was deserted at this hour.

  I did a complete walk around the site, which was about a third of a mile on each side, and I stopped a few times to look down into the huge excavation, which was partially lit by stadium lights. At the bottom of the deep pit was construction equipment and piles of building material. Virtually all of the rubble was gone, but now and then human remains still turned up. Bastards.

  On the Liberty Street side of the big hole was the long earthen ramp that went down into the construction site. The ramp was blocked by two high chain-link gates that were locked. On the other side of the gates I could see a house trailer that was a comfortable guard post for the Port Authority Police who manned this single entrance to the excavation. Parked near the gates was a Port Authority Police vehicle that was used by the two PA cops in the trailer.

  Well, I didn't expect to see Asad Khalil here near the guard post, so I moved onto West Street, which runs between the World Trade Center site and the buildings of the World Financial Center site, which had been so heavily damaged by the collapse of the Twin Towers that the area was blocked off by security fences. This place was like a war zone--which it actually was.

  On the opposite side of the excavation I could see the lighted observation platform, and it occurred to me that Asad Khalil would not have missed this tourist attraction while he was in New York. I pictured him standing there, looking down into this abyss, trying to hide his smile from the people around him.

  Stark's voice in my earpiece said, "You are alone."

  "Copy."

  I walked down to Battery Park, which was about a half mile south of Ground Zero. Battery Park at night is quiet, though not desolate. You get some romantic types who sit and watch the water and look at the Statue of Liberty, or take a ferry ride to Staten Island. Cheap date. Done it.

  It was a nice evening, so there were a few people in the park, including the surveillance team couple I'd seen in Central Park, sitting on a bench again, holding hands. I hoped they at least liked each other.

  I said into my mic, "This is not promising."

  Stark replied, "Maybe it's too early. Let's take a walk on some dark, quiet streets. Then we'll come back here later."

  I liked the way Stark used the plural pronoun as though he was walking. No, I was walking, and half the surveillance team was walking, and the other half was in unmarked vehicles. As for the SWAT team, they were transported to various locations, and they stayed mostly in their unmarked van so they wouldn't scare anyone.

  As I walked through the quiet streets of the Financial District, I called Kate to put her mind at ease, and she answered and said, "I've been waiting for your call. Where are you?"

  "Stepping over drunk stockbrokers."

  "Be careful, John."

  "Love you."

  Being married to someone in the business has its advantages. You worry about the other person, but it's informed worrying. And the less said, the better.

  I continued the walk through the nearly deserted streets of Lower Manhattan, then back to Battery Park, then back to the Trade Center.

  At about midnight, we all agreed that no one was following me, and I found a taxi near 26 Fed and headed home.

  On the way, I called Kate's cell phone, and said, "No luck. I'm in a taxi, heading home."

  "Good." She advised me, "Don't do this again." She said, "I don't think my nerves can take another night of this."

  Well, there goes my theory about being married to someone in the business. I said, "I've got the weekend off. Get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow."

  Me being lion bait did not seem to be working. Which could mean that Khalil and his local contacts had no idea I was out and about. Or they knew, but they smelled a trap. Or Khalil was gone.

  No. He was here. I knew he was here. And as Kate suggested, and as I suspected, Khalil had his own plan for John Corey. He hadn't come this far with that much hate in his heart to let me live.

  Back in my apartment building, I spoke to the two surveillance guys in the lobby, said good evening to the night doorman, got in the elevator, drew my Glock, and so forth.

  My apartment was terrorist-free, and I made myself a Scotch and soda and collapsed into my La-Z-Boy.

  I decided not to barricade my door tonight--I am available at home. I swiveled my recliner so it faced toward the foyer, put my Glock in my lap, and fell into a half-sleep.

  I had a recurring dream that the door burst open, and in some of the dreams I was pumping rounds at the dark figures silhouetted in the hallway light. In other dreams I couldn't find my gun. One time, my gun jammed.

  Where does this stuff come from? I used to dream about sex.

  Friday morning. The sun came through the balcony doors and it looked like it was going to be another nice day. Today would also be a good day to kill Asad Khalil.

  The shower is a dangerous place, as everybody knows who saw Psycho. I mean, you're naked and defenseless, and you can't hear anything with the shower running. So I took a nice bath, with my Glock, which will fire when wet.

  I visited Kate at Bellevue, and she'd had a bad night and had made up her mind that she was breaking out today.

  She said, "I am not spending the weekend in this place."

  I really didn't want her back in the apartment yet, so I said, "Tell you what. If something doesn't happen by Monday, you and I will fly out to... where your parents live..."

  "Minnesota."

  "Right. But just hang in here a few more days."

  She didn't reply.

  I really didn't want to go to East Cow Meadow, Minnesota, but maybe I could deposit Kate with her parents and get back here. Her father has a small arsenal in the house, and her crazy mother is a
skeet shooter who can handle a shotgun better than most men. Also, ofcourse, Khalil didn't know Kate was even alive. To the best of my knowledge.

  On that subject, I asked her, "Did you ask Tom about a gun?"

  "I did. It's against hospital regulations for a patient to have a gun."

  "That's a silly rule. I mean, maybe the convicts on the floor shouldn't have a gun, but why can't everyone else have their own gun?"

  "John... please."

  I took my revolver out of its holster and slid it under her pillow. I said, "You'll sleep better with Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson."

  She nodded, but didn't reply.

  I put her laptop on the bed and said, "Get into the Sullivan County Medical Examiner's Office."

  She hesitated, then logged on and found the site, and discovered that Katherine Mayfield Corey had died in the Catskill Regional Medical Center. The cause of death was listed as homicide.

  She stayed quiet awhile, then said, "I guess your point is that I shouldn't complain about being here."

  "Better here than downstairs." Meaning the city morgue.

  "Okay... Monday."

  I stayed for lunch--broiled stool pigeon with plea bargain peas--and as we dined, Kate asked me if I was going out again Monday night, and I replied, "I haven't heard."

  She said, "It's a waste of time."

  "What would you suggest?" I asked.

  "I don't know, but... Khalil's not going to fall for an obvious trap."

  "It's not that obvious." I added, "It's good for everyone's morale and it makes the bosses happy. Plus, you just never know."

  She took my hand and said, "John... Khalil has obviously thought this out. I told you, he has his own trap. For you."

  "I hope so."

  "Don't hope so."

  "Look, Kate, I can spot a trap, too."

  "I know you can. And I also know that you'll walk right into it because you think you can turn it around." She suggested, "You have a big ego."

  Leading cause of death among alpha males.

  She said, "Monday, two tickets to Minneapolis."

  "I thought you wanted to go to Minnesota."

  She said, "I'm looking forward to getting out in the country. It will do us a lot of good."

  "Right." Should I remind her about what happened last Sunday when we got out in the country? Probably not.

  I stood and said, "Okay, I have to go."

  "I'll go online and book the trip."

  "Great." Actually, of course, I wasn't going with her. Unless Asad Khalil was dead by Monday. And if I was dead by Monday, then I certainly wasn't going to Minnesota. That would be redundant. I reminded her, "You have a revolver under your pillow."

  "Maybe that will improve the service here."

  "See you tonight."

  She suggested, "Take the night off, John. I'm fine here."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'll see you in the morning."

  "Okay... I'll call you later."

  She also suggested, "Do not give your protective detail the slip and go out to see if Khalil is waiting for you."

  Wives become mind readers. Or maybe I was predictable. I replied, "I wouldn't do anything that dangerous."

  "Of course, you wouldn't." She suggested, "Let's talk every hour."

  "Right."

  We kissed and I left.

  I spent the afternoon on paperwork and thinking, and also working out. A sound mind in a sound body. The body is easier to work on.

  I had eaten my last can of chili, and there was nothing left in the apartment except things in bottles. So at 6 P.M. I called down to my protective detail and ordered a pepperoni pizza, which is good for the soul.

  At seven, my intercom buzzed and the SO guy said, "Pizza coming up."

  I unlocked the door and left it ajar, then drew my Glock and moved back into the foyer. If the pizza had anchovies, the delivery guy was dead.

  There was a knock on the door, then it opened, and there was Captain Vince Paresi carrying a pizza box. I wished I had a camera instead of a gun.

  Paresi noticed me holstering the Glock, but didn't comment.

  He said to me, "I thought I'd keep you company tonight."

  That sounded like it could have been Kate's idea. Or Walsh's. Or Paresi had the same idea himself--Corey needed company and needed to be watched. I'm flattered.

  I said, "That's very thoughtful of you."

  "Yeah. Take the pizza."

  I took the box and noticed that Paresi also had a bottle of red vino under his arm.

  I suggested, "Let's dine al fresco."

  He reminded me, "You're not supposed to go out on your balcony."

  "Live dangerously."

  I took the pizza out to the balcony and set it on the cafe table. Paresi remained in my living room while I went back into the kitchen and collected a corkscrew, glasses, a few napkins, and a bottle of Scotch.

  At my urging, he joined me on the balcony, and we shared his wine and my pizza. It was a nice night, and below on the street the city was coming alive on this Friday evening.

  The wine wasn't bad and the pizza was okay, and the conversation was sort of strained. Also, Paresi kept looking at the buildings up and down the street. Vince was not a good date.

  Finally, he said to me, "Those bastards could nail both of us up here."

  "Don't be paranoid. More wine?"

  He suggested, "Let's go inside."

  "It's nice out here." I let him know, "If Khalil wanted to whack me with a sniper rifle, he'd have already done it." I added, "He has something else planned for me."

  Paresi replied, "I was thinking about me." But not wanting me to think he was any less brave or crazy than I was, he produced two cigars and we lit up.

  He poured himself the last of the wine and informed me, "CAU got a hit on Kate's cell phone just a few hours ago." He flipped his ash and continued, "A seven- or eight-second signal lock. Then it was gone, like someone was accessing the phone's directory, then shut it off."

  "Where did the signal come from?"

  "Well, the cell tower that logged in her phone has coverage between Forty-fourth and Forty-third streets."

  "Okay... did you send cars there?"

  "We did, but I'm guessing the signal came from a moving vehicle."

  "Right. Sandland Taxi Service." I said, "Well, at least we know that Kate's cell phone is in Manhattan."

  "Right. And I hope that means Khalil is in Manhattan." He nodded toward the city below and said, "He's out there."

  "Maybe you'll get a call."

  "More probably you." He reminded me, "Let us know within five seconds if you get a call from him."

  "You and Tom do the same."

  He nodded.

  I looked again at the towering apartments and office buildings up and down my street. Some windows were lighted, some were dark, and I suspected one of those windows was looking back at us.

  I asked Paresi, "How's it going on Seventy-second Street?"

  He glanced out at the buildings and replied, "Lots and lots of doors to knock on." He informed me, "Some buildings don't even have a doorman or security guard that we can speak to--"

  "Check the lobby directories for Terrorist Safe House."

  He ignored that and said, "Half the doors we bang on don't even answer." He added, "Even some of the offices didn't answer during normal business hours."

  "Kick the doors in."

  He ignored that, too, and said, "I think we've cleared about half the apartments and maybe eighty percent of the offices." He then asked me, "Do you actually think they have a safe house--an observation post on this street?"

  "Makes sense to me. That's what we'd do so that's what they'd do."

  He nodded, but said nothing. Then he said, "It would have been good if that cell signal came from across the street."

  I informed him, "They're not that stupid."

  He disagreed. "They are."

  "They were, Vince. But they're getting smarter." I advised him, "They might n
ot have our technology, but they know what we have, and they know how to get around it."

  He shrugged.

  I further advised him, "Don't underestimate them. And do not underestimate Asad Khalil."

  "Right. How's the cigar?"

  "Better than the wine, but not as good as the pizza."

  "How's your Scotch?"

  "Older than the kids you've got watching my lobby."

  He smiled and reminded me, "We're understaffed. Especially on weekends."

  Right. And we might be more understaffed before this weekend was over.

  Kate called and was very happy to find me home with my date. She inquired, "Have you been drinking?"

  "No. We're still drinking."

  "Good night, John. I love you."

  "Love you, too."

  Vince and I finished a half bottle of Scotch, and he left before midnight.

  I wasn't sure if he had a protective detail with him, and I didn't want to ask. Macho guys don't ask or answer that kind of question.

  Anyway, having tempted fate and finding out that fate wasn't interested in me tonight, I left the balcony and went to bed.

  A quiet night. But I had that feeling I sometimes get when nothing happens that something is going to happen.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Saturday. Light rain today and showers forecast for Sunday. Good weather to kill a Libyan terrorist.

  I called for my government vehicle at 10 A.M., and visited Kate at Bellevue.

  She seemed in a good mood, knowing she'd be out soon.

  I asked her, "Is Tom okay with you leaving?"

  "He is," she informed me, "as long as I go to my parents' place."

  "Okay. Does he know that you want me to go with you?"

  "Yes. He's fine with that."

  That was a surprise, and I asked, "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. I convinced him that you shouldn't be doing what you're doing."

  "I like doing what I'm doing."