The Lion's Game (15 page)

Foster and Nash were in the room now, looking at Nick Monti. Two Port Authority uniformed cops were also in the room, also looking at Monti and sort of gawking at the facility. I yelled out, “Get an ambulance!” We didn’t really need one, but this is what you have to say.

Kate and I came down from the commo platform, and all four of us moved off to a corner. George Foster looked white, as if he’d seen his efficiency report. Ted Nash looked, as always, inscrutable, but I saw a look of worry cross his face.

No one spoke. What was there to say? We’d all been made to look like the fools we probably were. Beyond our little career problems, hundreds of people were dead, and the guy who caused this massacre was about to disappear into a metropolitan area of sixteen million people, which might be half that number this time tomorrow if the guy had access to something nuclear, chemical, or biological.

Clearly, we had a major problem. Clearly, too, neither Ted Nash, George Foster, Kate Mayfield, nor John Corey needed to trouble themselves about it. If the ATTF operated the way the NYPD did, we’d all be transferred to school crossing-guard duty.

But at least Nick Monti would be given an Inspector’s Funeral, and a posthumous medal of honor. As I said, I wondered what the outcome of this would have been if I’d stayed behind instead of Nick. Probably I’d be lying where he was, about to get my body outlined in chalk.

I stared at the desk where we all had sat, and I tried to imagine Khalil running into the room, looking left and right, seeing Monti, Monti seeing him ... The offensive guy always has the edge. And Nick didn’t even know he was in the game. He thought he was on the sidelines.

Everyone saw me looking at the desk and at Nick, and they were not as stupid or insensitive as they seemed, so they figured what was going through my head, and George took me by the shoulder and turned me away. Kate said, “Let’s get out of here.”

No one argued with that. Nash gathered the dossiers from the desk, and where there had been five—one for each of us—there were now four. Obviously, Mr. Khalil had helped himself to one of them, and now he knew what we knew about him. Incredible.

We walked back to the reception area that was becoming filled with NYPD and Port Authority cops. Someone had found the security disarming switch, and the door was in the open position.

I took Khalil’s photo out of one of the dossiers and went over to a uniformed Port Authority lieutenant and gave him the photo. I said, “This is the suspect. Get this out to every cop on duty. Tell them to stop and search every vehicle leaving this airport. Check the parking lots, taxis, trucks, even official vehicles.”

“That’s already in the works. Also, I’ve put out a citywide alert.”

Kate added, “Also, check the departure terminals for this guy.”

“Will do.”

I said to the lieutenant, “There’s a Trans-Continental vehicle outside. One of those baggage cart trucks. I think that’s what the perp arrived in, so have it towed into a processing area. Let us know if you find a Trans-Continental uniform or jumpsuit anyplace.”

The PA lieutenant got on his radio and called his command center.

The wheels were starting to move, but Asad Khalil had moved faster, and the chances of bottling him up inside this airport had passed about ten or fifteen minutes ago.

Foster was getting upset with all these NYPD and Port Authority people milling around, so he said, “Okay, everyone please clear out. This is a crime scene, and we want to preserve it for the lab. Keep someone at the door. Thank you.”

Everyone left except for a Port Authority sergeant, who motioned us over to Nancy’s desk. He pointed to an empty teacup and we looked at it. Sitting in the cup, in about a half inch of tea, were two thumbs.

The sergeant asked, “What the hell is that?”

George Foster replied, “I have no idea,” although he knew where the thumbs came from, and why they were no longer attached to their owners’ hands. But it’s best to get into the cover-up mode very quickly and to stay in that mode right up until the moment you’re under oath. And even then, a few memory lapses are okay. National security and all that.

So, what started out as a routine assignment ended up as the crime of the century. Shit happens, even on a nice spring day.

We all walked out of the Conquistador Club into the sunlight and saw more vehicles pulling up. Our team leader, Mr. George Foster, said to us, “I’ll call headquarters and have all our stakeouts alerted and increased.”

The ATTF, by the way, stakes out houses of known and suspected terrorists, bomb chuckers, their friends, families, and sympathizers. The NYPD guys who work for the ATTF supply the shoe leather for this. The Feds give the city of New York more money than the job is worth, and everyone is happy.

Foster went on, “We’ll increase phone taps, pull in some informants, and put Khalil’s photo out to every law enforcement agency in the country.”

George Foster went on a bit, making sure we knew he was on top of things, and building up everyone’s confidence and morale, not to mention creating some credibility for himself for the moment when he had to kiss major ass.

And speaking of that, eventually someone who we couldn’t totally bullshit was going to show up here, so I suggested, “Maybe we should go back to Federal Plaza and on our way there get our facts straight.”

Everyone thought that was a fine idea. Troubled minds think alike.

We needed a scapegoat to stay behind, however, and Foster knew that he was it. He said, “You three go ahead. I have to stay here and ... brief whoever shows up. Also, I have to put out the alert, and get the crime lab here.” He added, to convince himself, I think, “I can’t leave. This is a secure FBI facility, and ...”

I added helpfully, “And there’s no one left to secure it.”

He looked annoyed for the first time since I’d met him. He said to me, “It’s a restricted area with classified data and ...” He wiped some sweat off his lip and looked at the ground.

George Foster was realizing, of course, that Mr. Asad Khalil had known about this sanctum sanctorum, had penetrated into the heart of it, and taken a crap on the floor. Foster also knew how this had happened vis-à-vis February’s bogus defector. There were six tons of shit about to fall on George Foster, and he knew it. To his credit, he said, “This is my responsibility and my ... my ...” He turned and walked away.

Mr. Ted Nash, of course, belonged to an organization that specialized in sidestepping tons of falling shit, and I knew that nothing was going to splatter his bespoken suit. He turned and walked toward Simpson’s patrol car.

As for me, having been recently assigned to this sterling team, I was pretty clean and would probably stay that way, unless Nash figured out a way to push me under the shit storm. Maybe that’s why he wanted me around. Kate Mayfield, like George Foster, had no umbrella, but she’d covered herself a little by joining me in my ride to the aircraft. I said to her, “I’ve got nothing to lose here, and I
will
try to cover for you.”

She forced a smile and replied, “Thanks, but we’ll just tell it like it happened and let Washington decide if any of us is at fault.”

I rolled my eyes, but she pretended not to notice. She added, “I intend to stay on this case.”

“You’ll be lucky if they don’t put you back into Accounting.”

She informed me coolly, “We don’t operate like that. It is policy to keep an agent on a case that he or she has bungled, as long as you’re straight with them and don’t lie to them.”

“Really? I think the Boy Scouts have a similar policy.”

She didn’t reply.

A horn was honking, and it was Ted Nash waiting impatiently in the passenger seat of Officer Simpson’s car. We walked over to the car and got in the back where the two attaché cases sat. Nash said to us, “Officer Simpson has gotten permission to take us to lower Manhattan.”

Simpson informed us, “I’m so deep in shit because of you guys, it doesn’t matter what I do anymore.”

Kate said, “I’ll take care of it. You did a fine job.”

“Whoopie,” said Officer Simpson.

We rode in silence a few minutes, out toward one of the exits near the warehouses.

Finally, Nash said to me, “You did a good job, Detective.”

This sort of caught me by surprise, including the use of my former exalted title. I was speechless, and I began thinking that maybe I’d gotten old Ted all wrong. Maybe we could bond, maybe I should reach out and tousle his hair and say, “You big galoot—I love you!”

Anyway, we got to an exit gate, and a Port Authority cop waved us on with barely a look. Obviously, the word hadn’t gotten out to everyone. I told Simpson to stop.

I got out of the car and flashed my Fed creds and said to the guy, “Officer, have you gotten the word to stop and search all vehicles?”

“Yeah ... but not police cars.”

This was frustrating, and it pissed me off. I reached into the car and retrieved a dossier. I took out the photo and showed it to him. “Have you seen this guy?”

“No ... I think I’d remember that face.”

“How many vehicles have come through here since you got the alert?”

“Not many. It’s Saturday. Maybe a dozen.”

“Did you stop and search them?”

“Yeah ... but they were all big trucks filled with crates and boxes. I can’t open every box, unless it looks like the Customs seal has been tampered with. All the drivers had their Customs stuff in order.”

“So you didn’t open any crates?”

The guy was getting a little pissed at me and said, “I need some backup for that. That could take all day.”

“How many vehicles passed through here right before you got the alert?”

“Maybe ... two or three.”

“What kind of vehicles?”

“Couple of trucks. A taxi.”

“Passenger in the taxi?”

“I didn’t notice.” He added, “It was before the alert.”

“Okay ...” I gave him the photo and said, “This guy is armed and dangerous, and he’s already killed too many cops today.”

“Jesus.”

I got back in the car and we proceeded. I noted that the PA cop didn’t start with us and make us open the trunk, which is what I would have done if some wise-ass just busted my balls. But America wasn’t ready for any of this. Not at all ready.

We got on the parkway and headed back toward Manhattan.

We drove in silence awhile. The Belt Parkway traffic was what the helicopter traffic idiot would call moderate to heavy. Actually, it was heavy to horrible, but I didn’t care. I watched Brooklyn pass by out the right window, and I said to my Federal friends, “There are sixteen million people in the metropolitan area, eight million in New York City. Among them are about two hundred thousand newly arrived immigrants from Islamic countries, about half of them here in Brooklyn.”

Neither Kate nor Nash commented.

Regarding Khalil, if he had indeed disappeared into these teeming millions, could the ATTF root him out? Maybe. The Mideastern community was pretty closed, but there were informants, not to mention loyal Americans amongst them. The underground terrorist network was badly compromised, and to give the Feds credit, they had a good handle on who was who.

So, for that reason, Asad Khalil was not going to make contact with the usual suspects. No one who was bright enough to pull off what he’d just pulled off was going to be stupid enough to join up with anyone less intelligent than he was.

I considered Mr. Khalil’s audacity, which his sympathizers would call bravery. This man was going to be a challenge, to say the least.

Finally, Nash said to no one in particular, “About a million people slip into this country illegally every year. It’s not that difficult. So, what I think is that our guy’s mission was not to get into the country to commit an act of terrorism. His mission was to do what he did on the aircraft and at the Conquistador Club, then get out. He never left the airport and unless the Port Authority police have caught him, he’s on an outbound plane right now. Mission accomplished.”

I said to Ted Nash, “I’ve already discarded that theory. Catch up.”

He replied tersely, “I’ve discarded the other possibilities. I say he’s airborne.”

I recalled the Plum Island case, and Mr. Nash’s illogical reasoning and far-out conspiracy theories. Obviously the man had been trained beyond his intelligence and had forgotten how to even spell common sense. I said to him, “Ten bucks says we hear from our boy very soon and very close by.”

Nash replied, “You’re on.” He turned in his seat and said to me, “You have no experience in these things, Corey. A trained terrorist is not like a stupid criminal. They hit and run, then hit and run again, sometimes years later. They don’t revisit the scene of their crimes, and they don’t go hide out at their girlfriend’s house with a hot gun and a bag of loot, and they don’t go to a bar and brag about their crimes. He’s airborne.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nash.” I wondered if I should strangle him or smash his skull in with my gun butt.

Kate said, “That’s an interesting theory, Ted. But until we know for sure, we’re alerting the entire ATTF Mideast section to stake out all houses of known terrorist sympathizers and suspects.”

Nash replied, “I have no problem with standard operating procedure. But I’ll tell you this—if this guy is still in the country, the last place you’re going to find him is where you think he’ll show up. The February guy never showed up after he bolted, and he never will. If these two guys are connected, they represent something new and unknown. Some group we know nothing about.”

I’d already figured that out. Also, on one level, I hoped he was right about Khalil being airborne. I wouldn’t mind losing the ten bucks, even to this schmuck, and much as I’d like to get my hands on Asad Khalil and lump him up until his mother couldn’t recognize him, I really wanted him someplace else, where he couldn’t do any further damage to the good old US of A. I mean, a guy who would kill a planeload of innocent people undoubtedly had an atomic bomb up his sleeve, or anthrax in his hat, or poison gas up his ass.