The Lion's Game (14 page)

The two Emergency Service cops started talking a mile a minute. I heard the words NO-RAD, reverse thrusters, toxic fumes, something called the Saudi Scenario, and the name Andy, who I guessed was McGill.

We were all in the open area below, and I said to one of the PA cops, “Please stand on these stairs and don’t let anyone up to the dome until the FBI crime lab comes.”

“I know the drill.”

The curtains to the Coach and First Class section had been tied back, and I could see that the cabin was clear, but people still congregated at the doors on the mobile staircase.

I could feel and hear thumping below my feet, and I knew that the baggage handlers were clearing out the hold. I said to one of the Port Authority police officers, “Stop the unloading of the baggage, and please get everyone away from the aircraft.”

We entered the First Class compartment, which held only twenty seats, half of which were empty. We did a quick search of the area. Although I wanted to get moving and off this aircraft, we were the only two Feds on the scene—the only two live Feds—and we needed to gather what information we could. As we poked around, Kate said, “I think Khalil gassed this whole aircraft.”

“It would appear so.”

“He must have had an accomplice who had those two oxygen bottles that we found in the closet.”

“One oxygen, one not.”

“Yes, I understand that.” She looked at me and said, “I can’t believe Phil and Peter are dead ... and Khalil ... we lost our prisoner.”

“Defector,” I corrected.

She gave me an annoyed look, but said nothing.

It occurred to me that there were a hundred easier ways for a bad guy to slip into the country. But this guy—Asad Khalil—had picked about the most in-your-face-fuck-you way I could imagine. This was one bad dude. And he was loose in America. A lion in the streets. I didn’t even want to think what he was going to do next to top this act.

Kate was thinking along similar lines and said, “Right under our noses. He killed over three hundred people before he even landed.”

We moved out of the First Class compartment into the open area near the spiral staircase. I said to the Port Authority cop I had asked to guard the staircase, “By the way, what’s the Saudi Scenario?”

The guy explained it to Kate and me, and added, “This is something different. This is a new one.”

Kate and I moved away from the PA cop, and I said to her, “How about the Dracula Scenario?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know—Count Dracula is in a coffin on a ship from Transylvania to England. His accomplice opens the coffin, and Dracula gets out and sucks the blood of every man on board. The ship comes in by itself, like magic, with all the crew and passengers dead, and Dracula slips off into the peaceful country of England to commit more unholy horrors.” If I were a good Catholic, I would have crossed myself right there and then.

Kate stared at me, wondering, I guess, if I was nuts or in shock. I’m definitely nuts, and I admit to being a little in shock. I mean, I thought I’d seen it all by now, but there are few people on earth who’d seen anything like this, except maybe in war. Actually, this
was
war.

I looked into the big Coach cabin and saw that the paramedics had talked themselves on board. They were going through the aisles, making pronouncements of death, and neatly tagging each body with a seat and aisle number. Later, each body would be bagged. Tag and bag. What a mess.

I stood near the starboard side door and breathed some fresh air. I had the feeling we were missing something—something of great importance. I asked Kate, “Should we look through the dome again?”

She contemplated the question and replied, “I think we gave it a good once-over. Galley, lav, cockpit, closet, cabin, overheads ... Forensics will be happy we didn’t pollute the scene too much.”

“Yeah ...” There was still something I’d forgotten, or maybe overlooked ... I thought about the Fed creds and wallets and passports that Khalil didn’t take, and although I’d explained that to Kate and to myself, I was beginning to wonder why Khalil didn’t take that stuff. Assuming everything he did had a purpose, what was the purpose of doing the opposite of what we’d expect?

I racked my brains, but nothing was clicking.

Kate was looking through one of the attaché cases and said to me, “There doesn’t seem to be anything missing here either, not even Khalil’s dossier or the crypto sheets, or even our instruction memo from Zach Weber—”

“Wait a minute.”

“What’s the matter?”

It was starting to come together. “He’s trying to make us think he’s done with us. Mission complete. He wants us to think he’s headed into the International Departures building, and he’s clean going in there. He wants us to think he’s headed out on a flight somewhere, and he doesn’t want this stuff on him in case he’s spot-checked.”

“I’m not following. He is or he isn’t trying to catch an outbound flight?”

“He wants us to think he is, but he isn’t.”

“Okay ... so he’s staying here. He’s probably out of the airport by now.”

I was still trying to put this together. I said, “If he didn’t take the creds because he wanted to be clean, why did he take the guns? He wouldn’t take the guns into the terminal, and if he escaped from the airport, there would be an accomplice with a gun for him. So ... why does he need two guns inside the airport ... ?”

“He’s prepared to shoot his way out,” Kate said. “He kept the bulletproof vest on him. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking ...” All of a sudden, I thought of the February defector, and this totally unbelievable thought popped into my head. “Oh, shit ... !” I ran to the spiral staircase and barreled past the guy I’d posted there, took the steps three at a time, and charged into the dome, moving quickly to Phil Hundry. I grabbed his right arm, which I now noticed had been sort of tucked close to his body with his hand wedged between his thigh and the center armrest. I pulled his arm up and took a look at his hand. The thumb was missing, cleanly severed by a sharp instrument. “Damn!”

I grabbed Peter Gorman’s right arm, pulled it away from his body, and saw the same mutilation.

Kate was beside me now, and I held up Gorman’s lifeless arm and hand.

She seemed shocked and confused for about one half second, then said, “Oh, no!”

We both charged down the spiral stairs, out the door, and tore down the mobile stairs, knocking a few people aside. We found the Port Authority police car we’d come in, and I jumped in the front while Kate jumped in the back. I said to Simpson, “Lights and siren. Let’s get moving.”

I pulled Kate’s cell phone out of my pocket and called the Conquistador Club. I waited for Nancy Tate to answer, but there was no answer. I said to Kate, “Conquistador is not answering.”

“Oh, God ...”

Simpson headed toward the opening in the security enclosure, weaving through a dozen parked vehicles, but when we got to the opening in the wall, we were stopped by Port Authority cops, who informed us that the area was sealed. “I know,” I said, “I’m the guy who had it sealed.” The cops didn’t give a shit.

Kate handled it properly, holding up her FBI credentials, using a little logic, a little pleading, a little threatening, and some common sense. Officer Simpson helped, too. I kept my mouth shut. Finally, the PA cops waved us through.

I said quickly to Simpson, “Okay, listen. We have to get to the west end of the airport where all those service buildings are. The most direct and fastest route.”

“Well, the perimeter road—”

“No. Direct and fast. Runways and taxiways. Move.”

Officer Simpson hesitated and said, “I can’t go on the runway unless I call the Tower. Stavros is pissed—”

“This is a ten-thirteen,” I informed him, which means Cop in Trouble.

Simpson hit the gas, as any cop would do with a 10-13.

Kate asked me, “What’s a ten-thirteen?”

“Coffee break.”

After we’d cleared a bunch of vehicles, I said to Simpson, “Now pretend you’re an airplane and get up to takeoff speed. Hit it.”

He put the pedal to the metal and the big Chevy Caprice accelerated down the smooth concrete runway like it had afterburners. Simpson got on his radio and told the Tower what he was doing. The Tower guy sounded like he was going to have a coronary.

Meanwhile, I whipped out the cell phone and dialed the Conquistador Club again, but there was no answer. “Shit!” I dialed Foster’s cell phone and he answered. I said, “George, I’m trying to call Nick— Yeah ... Okay, I’m on my way there. Whoever gets there first, use caution. I think Khalil is headed that way. That’s what I said. Khalil took Phil’s and Peter’s thumbs— Yeah. You heard me right.”

I put the phone in my pocket and said to Kate, “George couldn’t get through either.”

She said, softly, “God, I hope we’re not too late.”

The car was doing a hundred now, eating up the runway.

In the distance I saw the old building in which the Conquistador Club was housed. I wanted to tell Simpson there was no need to hurry any longer, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that, and we were up to a hundred and ten. The car began to shimmy, but Simpson didn’t seem to notice or care. He glanced at me, and I said, “Eyes on the road.”

“Runway.”

“Whatever. See that long glass building? At some point, start to decelerate, find a service road or taxiway, and go toward that building.”

“Right.”

As we got closer, I saw an upside-down 31R painted on the runway, and further on I could see that the runway ended, and I realized there was a high chain-link fence separating us from the building. We shot past a service road that looked like it headed toward a gate in the fence, but the gate was a hundred yards to the right of where I needed to be. Simpson suddenly veered off the runway, and the car two-wheeled for a few seconds, then came down with a big thump and bounce.

Simpson took his foot off the gas but didn’t brake. We literally sailed and skimmed across the grass, pointed directly at the building beyond the fence. The Caprice hit the chain link and went through it like it wasn’t there.

The car settled down onto the blacktop, Simpson hit the brakes, and I could feel the anti-lock mechanism pumping and pulsating as Simpson fought the wheel for control. The car skidded and fishtailed, then came to a screeching halt about ten feet from the building’s entrance. I was half out of the car and said to Simpson, “Stop anyone coming out of the building. The perp is armed.”

I drew my piece and as I ran toward the entrance, I noticed our escort vehicles from Gate 23 approaching across the far side of the parking lot. I also noticed a Trans-Continental baggage cart vehicle near the building. This did not belong there, but I thought I knew how it got there.

Kate passed me and ran into the building, gun drawn. I followed and said, “Cover the elevators.” I ran up the staircase.

I stopped short of the hallway, stuck my head out and looked both ways, then ran down the corridor and stopped beside the door of the Conquistador Club, my back to the wall, out of sight of the scanning video camera whose monitors were all over the offices inside.

I reached out and pressed my right thumb to the translucent scanner, and the door slid open. I knew it would close again in three seconds, and as a security feature, it would not open again for three long minutes, unless someone inside opened it. So, I spun into the doorway just as it began closing, then crouched with my automatic extended, sweeping the reception area.

Nancy Tate was not at her desk, but her chair was against the back wall, and her phone was ringing insistently. Keeping my back to the wall, I came around the long, counter-type desk and saw Nancy Tate on the floor, a bullet hole in her forehead and a puddle of blood on the plastic mat, wet and gleaming around her face and hair. This did not surprise me, but it made me angry. I prayed that Asad Khalil was still here.

I knew I had to stay put to cover both doors that led from the reception room, and it was only a few seconds before I saw Kate on the monitor mounted on Nancy’s desk. Behind her were George Foster and Ted Nash. I reached out and hit the door button, shouting, “Clear!”

The three of them barreled into the reception room, guns drawn. I spoke quickly, “Nancy is on the floor here. Gunshot wound to the head. Kate and I will go into the Ops Center, you two check out the other side.”

They did what I said and disappeared through the doorway leading to the cells and interrogation rooms.

Kate and I moved quickly into the big operations and control center, taking minimum precautions. I think we both knew that Asad Khalil was long gone.

I walked over to the desk where we’d all sat not so long ago. All the chairs were empty, all the coffee mugs were empty, and Nick Monti lay on the floor, facing up at the high ceiling, his eyes wide open, and a big pool of blood around his body. His white shirt showed at least two entry wounds in the chest, and he hadn’t had time to go for his gun, which was still in his holster. I bent over him and checked for a pulse, but there wasn’t any.

Kate walked quickly up the three steps to the communications platform, and I followed. The duty officer had obviously had a few seconds to react because she was out of her chair and crumpled against the far wall beneath the huge electronic maps of the world. There was blood splattered on the wall and all over her white blouse. Her holster hung over the back of a chair along with her blue blazer and her pocketbook. Again, I checked for signs of life, but she was dead.

The room murmured and crackled with electronics and a few voices came faintly through the speakers. A Teletype was clattering, and a fax machine went off. On the console was a tray of sushi and two chopsticks. I looked again at the dead duty officer against the wall. The last thing she expected today was trouble in the very heart of one of the most secure and secret facilities in the country.