The Lion's Game (23 page)

Jabbar glanced in his rearview mirror and said, “What has become of the passenger I picked up at the airport? What have you done with him, Mr. Badr?”

They both laughed, but then Jabbar realized he should not have drawn attention to the fact that he knew the fictitious name of his passenger, and he fell silent. Jabbar looked in his rearview mirror and saw this man’s dark eyes staring at him.

Khalil turned to look out the window. They were still in an area that seemed less prosperous than any he had seen in Europe, but there were many good cars parked on the streets, which surprised him.

Jabbar said, “Look there, sir. That is the highway you will need to drive on—it is called the New Jersey Turnpike. That is the entrance to the highway, there. You will take a ticket from a machine and pay a toll when you get off. The highway goes north and south, so you must get into the proper lane.”

Khalil noted that Jabbar did not ask him which way he was going to travel. Jabbar understood that the less he knew, the better for everyone. But Jabbar already knew too much.

Khalil asked Jabbar, “Do you know what happened at the airport today?”

“Which airport, sir?”

“The one we came from.”

“No, I do not.”

“Well, you will hear about it on the radio.”

Jabbar did not reply.

Khalil opened one of the bottles of mineral water, drank half of it, then tipped the bottle and poured the remainder on the floor.

They pulled into a huge parking lot with a sign that said PARK AND RIDE. Jabbar explained, “People drive their cars here and take a bus into Manhattan—into the city. But today is Saturday, so there are not many cars.”

Khalil looked around at the expanses of crumbling blacktop surrounded by a chain-link fence. There were about fifty cars parked within white lines, but the parking lot could hold hundreds more. He noted, too, that there were no people in view.

Jabbar put his taxi in a parking space and said, “There, sir, do you see that black car straight ahead?”

Khalil followed Jabbar’s gaze to a large black automobile parked a few rows ahead of them. “Yes.”

“Here are the keys.” Without looking at Khalil, Jabbar passed the keys over the seat. Jabbar said, “All of your rental papers are in the glove box. The car is rented in the name on your passport for one week, so after that time, the car agency may become concerned. The car was rented at Newark Airport, in New Jersey, but the license plates are from New York. This is of no concern. That is all I have been instructed to tell you, sir. But if you would like, I can lead you back to the highway.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“May Allah bless your visit, sir. May you return safely to our homeland.”

Khalil already had the .40 caliber Glock in his hand. He put the muzzle of the Glock into the opening of the empty plastic bottle and pushed the bottom of the bottle against the rear of the driver’s seat. He fired a shot through the back of the seat into Gamal Jabbar’s upper spine, so that if it missed the spinal column, it would penetrate the heart from the rear. The plastic bottle muffled the blast of the gun.

Jabbar’s body lurched forward, but his harness belt held him upright.

Smoke poured from the bottle’s neck and from the bullet hole in the bottom. Khalil loved the smell of burnt cordite and inhaled it through his nostrils. He said, “Thank you for the water.”

Khalil considered a second shot, but then he saw Jabbar’s body start to twitch in a way that a man could not fake. Khalil waited half a minute, listening to Jabbar’s gurgling.

As he waited for Jabbar to die, he found the empty .40 caliber shell casing and put it in his pocket, then put the plastic bottle in his overnight bag.

Gamal Jabbar finally stopped twitching, gurgling, and breathing, and sat motionless.

Khalil looked around to be certain they were alone in the lot, then he reached over the seat and quickly took Jabbar’s wallet from his pocket, then unfastened the man’s seat belt and pushed him down below the dashboard. He turned off the ignition and took the keys out.

Asad Khalil removed his black overnight bag, got out of the taxi, closed and locked the doors, then walked to the black car, which was called a Mercury Marquis. The key fit, he entered the car, and started it, remembering his seat belt. He moved out of the quiet parking lot onto the street. He recalled a line from the Hebrew scripture.
A lion is in the streets
. He smiled.

An FBI guy named Hal Roberts met Kate, Ted, and me in the lobby of 26 Federal Plaza.

When someone meets you in the lobby of your workplace, it’s either an honor, or you’re in trouble. Mr. Roberts was not smiling, and this was my first clue that we were not going to receive letters of commendation.

We got on the elevator, and Roberts used his key for the twenty-eighth floor. We rode up in silence.

Twenty-six Federal Plaza is home to various government agencies, most of them no more than innocuous tax eaters. But floors twenty-two through twenty-eight are not innocuous and are accessible only by key. I was given a key when I started this job, and the guy who gave it to me said, “I’d like to get the thumbprint pad here. You can forget your key, or lose it, but you can’t forget or lose your thumb.” Actually, you can lose your thumb.

My work floor was twenty-six where I had a piece of a cube farm, along with other ex-NYPD and active-duty NYPD. Also on the twenty-sixth floor were a few suits, as cops referred to the FBI. This is a bit of a misnomer, since many of the NYPD types wear suits, and about a third of the FBI types are female and don’t wear suits. But I learned long ago never to question the jargon of an organization; somewhere in the jargon is a clue to the mind-sets of the people who work there.

Anyway, we got to the top floor where the celestial beings dwelt, and we were ushered into a corner office facing southeast. The name on the door said JACK KOENIG, known by his translated and transposed name as King Jack. Mr. Koenig’s actual title was Special Agent in Charge, SAC for short, and he was in charge of the entire Anti-Terrorist Task Force. His dominion extended throughout the five boroughs of New York City, the surrounding counties of New Jersey and Connecticut, as well as nearby upstate New York and the two counties of Long Island—Nassau and Suffolk. It was in this latter county, on the east end of Long Island, where I had first run into Sir Ted and Sir George, to continue the metaphor, knights-errant, who turned out to be fools. In any case, I had no doubt that King Jack did not like things going wrong in his kingdom.

His Highness had a big office with a big desk. There was also a couch and three club chairs around a coffee table. There were built-in bookshelves and an Arthurian round table and chairs, but no throne.

His Majesty was not in, and Mr. Roberts said, “Make yourselves at home, put your feet up on the coffee table, and lay on the couch if you like.” Actually, Mr. Roberts did not say this—Mr. Roberts said, “Wait here,” and left.

I wondered if I had time to get to my desk and check my hiring contract.

I should mention that since this is a Joint Anti-Terrorist Task Force, there is a New York City police captain who shares this command with Jack Koenig. The captain is named David Stein, a Jewish gent with a law degree, and in the eyes of the Police Commissioner, a man with enough brains to hold his own against the overeducated Feds. Captain Stein has a tough job, but he’s slick, sharp, and just diplomatic enough to keep the Feds happy while still protecting the interests of the NYPD men and women under him. People like me who are ex-NYPD Contract Agents are in a sort of gray area, and no one looks out for our interests, but neither do I have the problems of career officers, so it’s a wash.

Anyway, regarding Captain Stein, he’s a former Intelligence Unit guy who worked on a lot of cases involving Islamic extremists, including the murder of Rabbi Meir Kahane, and he’s a natural for this job. Not to read too much into the Jewish thing, but he clearly has a personal problem with Islamic extremists. The Anti-Terrorist Task Force, of course, covers all terrorist organizations, but you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out where most of the focus was.

In any case, I wondered if I’d be seeing Captain Stein tonight. I hoped so—we needed another cop in the room.

Kate and Ted put Phil’s and Peter’s briefcases on the round table without comment. I recalled occasions when I had to remove the shield, gun, and credentials of men I knew and return them to the precinct. It’s not unlike when ancient warriors would take the swords and shields of their fallen comrades and bring them home. In this case, however, the weapons were missing. I opened the briefcases to be sure the cell phones were off. It’s disturbing when a dead person’s phone rings.

Anyway, regarding Jack Koenig, I’d met him only once when I was hired, and I found him to be fairly intelligent, quiet, and thoughtful. He was known as a hardass and had a sarcastic side to him, which I admired greatly. I recalled that he’d said to me, apropos of my professorship at John Jay, “Those who can, do—those who can’t, teach.” To which I’d replied, “Those who have taken three bullets on the job don’t have to explain their second careers.” After a moment of frosty silence, he smiled and said, “Welcome to the ATTF.”

Despite the smile and welcome, I had the impression he was a wee bit pissed at me. Maybe he’d forgotten the incident.

We stood in the office with the plush blue carpet, and I glanced at Kate, who seemed a little anxious. I looked at Ted Nash, who, of course, did not call Jack his Special Agent in Charge. Mr. CIA had his own bosses, housed across the street at 290 Broadway, and I’d have given a month’s pay to see him on the carpet at 290. But that would never happen.

Some of the ATTF, by the way, is located at 290 Broadway, a newer and nicer building than Federal Plaza, and rumor has it that the separation of forces is not the result of an administrative space problem, but a planned strategy in the event someone decided to test out their advanced chemistry class on one of the Federal buildings. Personally, I think it’s just a planning screwup and bureaucratic jockeying, but this kind of organization lends itself to top security explanations for common stupidity.

If you’re wondering why Ted, Kate, and John were not conversing, it’s because we figured that the office was bugged. When two or more people are left alone in someone else’s office, just assume you’re on the air. Testing, one, two, three. I did say, however, for the record, “Nice office. Mr. Koenig has really good taste.”

Ted and Kate ignored me.

I glanced at my watch. It was nearly 7:00 P.M., and I suspected that Mr. Koenig was not happy about having to return to the office on a Saturday evening. I wasn’t too thrilled with the idea either, but anti-terrorism is a full-time job. As we used to say in the Homicide Squad, “When a murderer’s day ends, our day begins.”

Anyway, I went to the window and looked out to the east. This part of lower Manhattan is jam-packed with courthouses, and further to the east was One Police Plaza, my former headquarters where I’d had good visits and bad visits. Beyond Police Plaza was the Brooklyn Bridge from whence we’d come, and which crossed over the East River itself, which separated Manhattan Island from Long Island.

I could not actually see Kennedy Airport from here, but I could see the glow of its lights, and I noticed in the sky above the Atlantic Ocean what appeared to be a string of bright stars, like a new constellation, but which were actually approaching aircraft. Apparently the runways were open again.

Out in the harbor, to the south, was Ellis Island, through which millions of immigrants had passed, including my Irish ancestors. And to the south of Ellis Island in the middle of the bay stood the Statue of Liberty, all lit up, holding her torch high, welcoming the world. She was on just about every terrorist’s hit list, but so far, so good. She was still standing.

All in all, it was a spectacular evening view from up here—the city, the lighted bridges, the river, the clear April sky, and the nearly full moon rising in the east above the flatlands of Brooklyn.

I turned and looked southwest through the big window of the corner office. The most dominant features out there were the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center, soaring a quarter mile into the sky, a hundred and ten stories of glass, concrete, and steel.

The towers were about half a mile away, but they were so massive that they looked as if they were across the street. The towers were designated the North Tower and the South Tower, but on Friday, February 26, 1993, at 12:17 and 36 seconds P.M., the South Tower almost became known as the Missing Tower.

Mr. Koenig’s desk was arranged so that every time he looked out the window, he could see these towers, and he could contemplate what some Arab gentlemen had prayed for when they had driven an explosive-filled van into the basement parking garage—namely, the collapse of the South Tower and the death of over fifty thousand people in the tower and on the ground.

And if the South Tower had collapsed just right and hit the North Tower, there would have been another forty or fifty thousand dead.

As it turned out, the structure held, and the death toll was six, with over a thousand injured. The subterranean explosion took out the police station located in the basement and left a cavern where the multi-layered underground parking garage had been. What could have been the biggest loss of American life since World War II turned out to be a loud and clear wake-up call. America had become the front lines.

It occurred to me that Mr. Koenig could have rearranged his furniture or put blinds on the windows, but it said something about the man that he chose to look at these buildings every workday. I don’t know if he cursed the security lapses that had led to the tragedy, or if he thanked God every morning that a hundred thousand lives had been spared. Probably he did both, and probably, too, these towers, plus the Statue of Liberty and Wall Street and everything else that Jack Koenig surveyed from up here, haunted his sleep every night.