The Lion's Game (21 page)

Asad Khalil, recently arrived by air from Paris, and the only survivor of Trans-Continental Flight 175, sat comfortably in the back of a New York City taxi cab. He stared out the right side window, noticing the tall buildings set back from the highway. He noticed, too, that many of the cars here in America were bigger than in Europe, or in Libya. The weather was pleasant, but as in Europe, there was too much humidity for a man used to the arid climate of North Africa. Also, as in Europe, there was much green vegetation. The Koran promised a Paradise of greenery, flowing streams, eternal shade, fruits, wine, and women. It was curious, he thought, that the lands of the infidels seemed to resemble Paradise. But the resemblance, he knew, was only superficial. Or perhaps, Europe and America
was
the Paradise promised in the Koran, awaiting only the coming of Islam.

Asad Khalil turned his attention to the taxi driver, Gamal Jabbar, his compatriot, whose photo and name were prominently displayed on a license mounted on the dashboard.

Libyan Intelligence in Tripoli had told Khalil that his driver would be one of five men. There were many Muslim taxi drivers in New York City, and many of them could be persuaded to do a small favor, even though they were not chosen freedom fighters. Khalil’s case officer in Tripoli, who he knew as Malik—the King, or the Master—had said with a smile, “Many drivers have relatives in Libya.”

Khalil asked Gamal Jabbar, “What is this road?”

Jabbar replied in Libyan-accented Arabic, “This is called the Belt Parkway. You see, the Atlantic Ocean is over there. This part of the city is known as Brooklyn. Many of our co-religionists live here.”

“I know that. Why are
you
here?”

Jabbar did not like the tone or the implication of the question, but he had a prepared answer and replied, “Just to make money in this accursed land. I will return to Libya and my family in six months.”

Khalil knew this wasn’t true—not because he thought Jabbar was lying—but because Jabbar would be dead within the hour.

Khalil looked out the window at the ocean on his left, then at the tall apartment buildings on his right, and then toward the distant skyline of Manhattan to his front. He had spent enough time in Europe not to be overly impressed with what he saw here. The lands of the infidels were populous and prosperous, but the people had turned away from their God and were weak. People who believed in nothing but filling their bellies and their wallets were no match for the Islamic fighters.

Khalil said to Jabbar, “Do you adhere to your faith here, Jabbar?”

“Yes, of course. There is a mosque near my home. I have maintained my faith.”

“Good. And for what you are doing today, you are assured a place in Paradise.”

Jabbar did not reply.

Khalil sat back in his seat and reflected on the last hour of this important day.

Getting out of the airport’s service area and into this taxi and onto this highway had been very simple, but Khalil knew that it might not have been so easy ten or fifteen minutes later. He had been surprised on board the aircraft when he heard the tall man in the suit say, “Crime Scene,” and then the man looked at him and ordered him off the spiral staircase. Khalil wondered how the police knew so soon that a crime had been committed. Perhaps, he thought, the fireman on board had said something on his radio. But Khalil and Yusef Haddad, his accomplice, had been careful not to leave any obvious evidence of a crime. In fact, Khalil thought, he had gone through the difficulty of breaking Haddad’s neck so as not to leave evidence of a gunshot or knife wound.

There were other possibilities, Khalil thought. Perhaps the fireman had noticed the missing thumbs of the Federal agents. Or perhaps because the fireman was out of radio contact for a short time, the police became suspicious.

Khalil had not planned to kill the fireman, but he had no choice when the man tried to open the lavatory door. His only regret in killing the fireman was that another piece of evidence had been created at a critical moment in his plans.

In any case, the situation had changed quickly when that man in the suit came aboard, and Khalil then had to move more quickly. He smiled at the thought of that man telling him to get down from the staircase, which was exactly what he had been doing anyway. Getting off the aircraft had been not only simple—he’d actually been ordered to leave.

Getting into the baggage truck, whose engine was running, and driving off in the confusion had been even less of a problem. In fact, he’d had dozens of unoccupied vehicles to choose from, which is what he’d been told by Libyan Intelligence, who had a friend working as a baggage handler for Trans-Continental airlines.

Khalil’s map of the airport had come from a Web site source, and the location of the place called the Conquistador Club had been accurately identified by Boutros, the man who had preceded him in February. Libyan Intelligence had made Khalil rehearse the route from the security area to the Conquistador Club, and Khalil could have made the drive blindfolded after a hundred rehearsals on mock roads laid out near Tripoli.

He thought about Boutros, whom he had met only once—not about the man himself, but about how easily Boutros had deceived the Americans in Paris, in New York, and then in Washington. The American Intelligence people were not stupid, but they were arrogant, and arrogance led to overconfidence, and thus carelessness.

Khalil said to Jabbar, “You are aware of the significance of this day.”

“Of course. I am from Tripoli. I was a boy when the American bombers came. A curse be unto them.”

“Did you suffer personally in the attack?”

“I lost an uncle at Benghazi. My father’s brother. His death saddens me even now.”

Khalil was amazed at how many Libyans had lost friends and relatives in the bombing that had killed fewer than a hundred people. Khalil had long ago assumed they were all lying. Now he was probably in the presence of another liar.

Khalil did not often speak of his own suffering from that air attack, and he would never reveal such a thing outside Libya. But since Jabbar would soon pose no security risk, Khalil said to him, “My entire family was killed at Al Azziziyah.”

Jabbar sat in silence a moment, then said, “My friend, I weep for you.”

“My mother, my two sisters, my two brothers.”

Again silence, then Jabbar said, “Yes, yes. I recall. The family of ...”

“Khalil.”

“Yes, yes. They were all martyred at Al Azziziyah.” Jabbar turned his head to look at his non-paying passenger, “Sir, may Allah avenge your suffering. May God give you peace and strength until you see your family again in Paradise.”

Jabbar went on, heaping praise, blessings, and sympathy on Asad Khalil.

Khalil’s mind returned to earlier in the day, and again he thought of the tall man in the suit, and the woman in the blue jacket who seemed to be his accomplice. The Americans, like the Europeans, made women into men and the men became more like women. This was an insult to God and to God’s creation. Woman was made of the rib of Adam, to be his helpmate, not to be his equal.

In any case, when that man and woman came on board, the situation had changed quickly. In fact, he had considered avoiding the place called the Conquistador Club—the secret headquarters of the Federal agents—but it was a target that he could not resist, a treat he had savored in his mind since February when Boutros had reported its existence to Malik. Malik had said to Khalil, “This is a tempting dish offered to you on your arrival. But it will not be as filling to you as those dishes served cold. Make your decision carefully and wisely. Kill only what you can eat, or what you can hide for later.”

Khalil remembered those words, but had decided to take the risk and kill those who believed they were his jailers.

Khalil considered that what had happened on the aircraft was of little consequence. Poison gas was an almost cowardly way to kill, but it had been part of the plan. The bombs that Khalil had detonated in Europe gave him little satisfaction, though he appreciated the symbolism of killing those people in a manner similar to the way his family had been killed by the cowardly American pilots.

The killing of the American Air Force officer in England with the ax had given him the greatest satisfaction. He still recalled the man walking to his car in the dark parking lot, aware that someone was behind him. He remembered the officer turning to him and saying, “Can I help you?”

Khalil smiled.
Yes, you can help me, Colonel Hambrecht
. Then Khalil had said to the man, “Al Azziziyah,” and he would never forget the expression on the man’s face before Khalil swung the ax from under his trench coat and hit the man with the blade, almost severing his arm. And then Khalil took his time, chopping at the man’s limbs, ribs, genitals, holding off the fatal blow to his heart until he was sure the man had suffered enough pain to be in extreme agony, but not so much pain as to become unconscious. Then he delivered the ax blow to the sternum, which split it open as the blade cut into his heart. The American colonel still had enough blood in him to produce a small geyser, which Khalil hoped the man could see and feel before he died.

Khalil had been sure to remove Colonel Hambrecht’s wallet and watch to make it look like a robbery, though the ax murder clearly did not look like part of a simple robbery. Still, it put questions in the minds of the police, who had to label the murder as a possible robbery, but possibly political.

Khalil’s next thought was of the three American schoolchildren in Brussels, waiting for a bus. There were supposed to be four—one for each of his sisters and brothers—but there were only three that morning. A female adult was with them, probably the mother of one or two. Khalil had stopped his car, got out, and shot each child in the chest and head, smiled at the woman, got back in the car, and drove off.

Malik had been angry with him for leaving a witness alive who saw his face, but Khalil had no doubt that the woman would remember nothing for the rest of her life, except the three children dying in her arms. This was how he had avenged the death of his mother.

Khalil thought a moment about Malik, his mentor, his master, almost his father. Malik’s own father, Numair—the Panther—was a hero in the war of independence against the Italians. Numair had been captured by the Italian Army and hanged when Malik was just a boy. Malik and Khalil shared, and were bonded by, the loss of their fathers to the infidels, and both had sworn revenge.

Malik—whose real name was unknown—had, after his father had been hanged, offered to spy for the British against the Italians and the Germans as the armies of the three countries killed one another across the length of Libya. Malik had also spied for the Germans against the British, and his combined spying on the armies of both sides had ensured greater slaughter. When the Americans arrived, Malik found yet another employer who trusted him. Khalil recalled that Malik once told him of the time he led an American patrol into a German ambush, then returned to the American lines and revealed to them the location of the German ambush party.

Khalil had been in awe of Malik’s duplicity and of his death toll without firing a shot himself.

Asad Khalil had been trained in the killing arts by many good men, but it had been Malik who taught him how to think, to act, to deceive, to understand the mind of the Westerner, and to use that knowledge to avenge all those who believed in Allah and who had been killed over the centuries by the Christian infidels.

Malik had told Asad Khalil, “You have the strength and courage of a lion. You have been taught to kill with the speed and ferocity of a lion. I will teach you to be as cunning as a lion. For without cunning, Asad, you will be an early martyr.”

Malik was old now, nearly seventy years on this earth, but he had lived long enough to see many triumphs of Islam over the West. He had told Khalil, on the day before Khalil went to Paris, “God willing, you will reach America, and the enemies of Islam and of our Great Leader will fall before you. God has ordained your mission, and God will keep you safe until you return. But you must help God, a bit, by remembering all you have been taught and all you have learned. God himself has put in your hand the names of our enemies, and he has done so that you may slay them all. Be driven by revenge, but do not be blinded by hate. The lion does not hate. The lion kills all who threaten him or have tormented him. The lion also kills when he is hungry. Your soul has been hungry since that night when your family was taken from you. Your mother’s blood calls to you, Asad. The innocent blood of Esam, Qadir, Adara, and Lina calls out to you. And your father, Karim, who was my friend, will be watching you from heaven. Go, my son, and return in glory. I will be waiting for you.”

Khalil almost felt tears forming in his eyes as he thought of Malik’s words. He sat quietly for a while, as the taxi moved through traffic, thinking, praying, thanking God for his good fortune so far. He had no doubt that he was at the beginning of the end of his long journey that had begun on the rooftop of Al Azziziyah so long ago on this very date.

The thought of the rooftop brought back an unpleasant memory—the memory of Bahira—and he tried to put this out of his mind, but her face kept returning to him. They had found her body two weeks later, so badly decomposed that no one knew how she died, and no one could guess why she had been on that roof so far from her house in Al Azziziyah.

Asad Khalil, in his naïveté, imagined that the authorities would connect him to Bahira’s death, and he lived in mortal fear of being accused of fornication, blasphemy, and murder. But those around him mistook his agitated state for grief over the loss of his family. He
was
grief-stricken, but he was perhaps slightly more frightened of having his head severed from his body. He did not fear death itself, he told himself over and over again—what he feared was a shameful death, an early death that would keep him from his mission of revenge.