The Lion's Game (24 page)

King Jack had not actually been in charge of the ATTF when the bomb blew in 1993, but he was in charge now, and he might think about rearranging his desk Monday morning to look toward Kennedy Airport. Indeed, it was lonely at the top, but the view was supposed to be good. For Jack Koenig, however, there were no good views from here.

The subject of my thoughts entered his office at that moment and caught me staring out at the World Trade Center. He asked me, “Are they still standing, Professor?”

Apparently he had a good memory for snotty subordinates. I replied, “Yes, sir.”

“Well, that’s good news.” He looked at Kate and Nash and motioned us all to the seating area. Nash and Kate sat on the couch, I sat in one of the three club chairs, while Mr. Koenig remained standing.

Jack Koenig was a tall man of about fifty years old. He had short, steely-gray hair, steely-gray eyes, a steely-gray Saturday stubble, a steely jaw, and stood like he had a steel rod up his ass that he was about to transfer to someone else’s ass. All in all, he was not an avuncular type, and his mood looked understandably dark.

Mr. Koenig was dressed in casual slacks, a blue sports shirt, and loafers, but on him nothing looked casual, sporty, or loafish.

Hal Roberts entered the office and sat in the second club chair, across from me. Jack Koenig didn’t seem inclined to sit and relax.

Mr. Roberts had a long yellow legal pad and a pencil. I thought perhaps he was going to take drink orders, but I was being too optimistic.

Mr. Koenig began without preamble and asked us, “Can one of you explain to me how a cuffed and guarded suspected terrorist managed to kill three hundred men, women, and children aboard an American airliner, including his two armed escorts, and two Federal Air Marshals on board, a Port Authority Emergency Service man, and then proceed to a secret and secure Federal facility where he murdered an ATTF secretary, the FBI duty officer, and an NYPD member of your team?” He looked at each of us. “Would anyone care to take a shot at an explanation?”

If I were at Police Plaza instead of Federal Plaza, I would have answered a sarcastic question like that by saying, “Can you imagine how much worse it could have been if the perp
wasn’t
cuffed?” But this was not the time, place, or occasion for flippancy. A lot of innocent people were dead, and it was the job of the living to explain why. Nevertheless, King Jack was not getting off to a good start with his subjects.

Needless to say, no one answered the question, which seemed to be rhetorical. It’s a good idea to let the boss vent awhile. To his credit, he vented only for another minute or so, then sat down and stared off out the window. His view was toward the financial district, so there were no unhappy associations attached to that scene, unless he happened to own Trans-Continental stock.

Jack Koenig, by the way, was FBI, and I’m sure that Ted Nash did not like being spoken to in such a manner by an FBI guy. I, as a quasi-civilian, didn’t like it either, but Koenig was the boss, and we were all part of the Task Force. The Team. Kate, being FBI, was in a career-threatening position, and so was George Foster, but George had chosen the easy job and stayed behind with the bodies.

King Jack seemed to be trying to get himself under control. Finally, he looked at Ted Nash and said, “I’m sorry about Peter Gorman. Did you know him?”

Nash nodded.

Koenig looked at Kate and said, “You were a friend of Phil Hundry.”

“Yes.”

Koenig looked at me and said, “I’m sure you’ve lost friends on the job. You know how hard that is.”

“I do. Nick Monti had become my friend.”

Jack Koenig stared off into space again, contemplating many things, I’m sure. It was a time for respectful silence, and we gave it about a minute, but everyone knew that we had to get back to business quickly.

I asked, perhaps undiplomatically, “Will Captain Stein be joining us?”

Koenig looked at me a moment and finally said, “He’s taken direct charge of the stakeout and surveillance teams and has no time for meetings.”

You never know what the bosses are actually up to, or what kind of palace struggle is going on, and it’s best not to give a shit. I yawned to indicate that I just lost interest in both my question and Koenig’s answer.

Koenig turned to Kate and said, “Okay, tell me what happened. From the top.”

Kate seemed prepared for the question and went through the events of the day, chronologically, objectively, and quickly, but without rushing.

Koenig listened without interrupting. Roberts took notes. Somewhere an audiotape was spinning.

Kate mentioned my insistence on going out to the aircraft, and the fact that neither she nor Foster thought it was necessary.

Koenig’s face remained impassive, neither approving nor disapproving throughout the narrative. He didn’t raise an eyebrow, didn’t frown, didn’t wince, didn’t nod or shake his head, and for sure never smiled. He was an expert listener and nothing in his manner or demeanor encouraged or discouraged his witness.

Kate got to the part where I went back into the dome of the 747 and discovered that Hundry’s and Gorman’s thumbs were missing. She stopped there and collected herself. Koenig glanced at me, and though he didn’t give me any sign of approval, I knew that I was going to stay on the case.

Kate moved on with the sequence of events, giving only the facts, leaving the speculation and theories for later, if and when Koenig asked for them. Kate Mayfield had an amazing memory for detail, and an astonishing ability to refrain from coloring and slanting facts. I mean, in similar situations when I was on the carpet in front of the bosses, I would try not to color or slant, unless I was protecting a bud, but I have been known to have memory lapses.

Kate concluded with, “George decided to stay and take charge of the scene. We all concurred, and we asked Officer Simpson to drive us here.”

I glanced at my watch. Kate’s narrative had taken forty minutes. It was now nearly 8:00 P.M., the time when my brain usually needs alcohol.

Jack Koenig sat back in his chair, and I could see he was processing the facts. He said, “It seems as though Khalil was just a step or two ahead of us.”

I decided to reply and said, “That’s all it takes in a race. Second place is just the first loser.”

Mr. Koenig regarded me a moment and repeated, “Second place is the first loser. Where did you get that?”

“I think the Bible.”

Koenig said to Roberts, “Take a break,” and Mr. Roberts put down his pencil.

Koenig said to me, “I understand you’ve put in a transfer request for the IRA section.”

I cleared my throat and replied, “Well, I did, but—”

“Do you have some personal grudge against the Irish Republican Army?”

“No, actually, I—”

Kate spoke up and said, “John and I discussed this earlier, and he has withdrawn the request.”

That’s not exactly what I said to her, but it sounded better than my racist and sexist remarks regarding Muslims. I glanced at Kate and our eyes met.

Koenig informed me, “I reviewed the Plum Island case last fall.”

I didn’t reply.

“I read the case report prepared by Ted Nash and George Foster, and the report that was written by a Detective Beth Penrose of the Suffolk County Homicide Division.” He added, “There seemed to be some differences of opinion and fact between the ATTF report and the Suffolk County Police report. Most of the differences had to do with your role in the case.”

“I had no official role in the case.”

“Nevertheless, you solved the case.”

“I had a lot of time on my hands. Maybe I need a hobby.”

He didn’t smile. He said, “Detective Penrose’s report was perhaps colored by your relationship with her.”

“I had no relationship with her at the time.”

“But you did when she wrote her final report.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Koenig, I’ve been through this with the NYPD Internal Affairs—”

“Oh, they have people who investigate affairs?”

This, I realized, was a joke and I chuckled, a second or two late.

“Also,” he continued, “Ted and George’s report may have been colored by the fact that you pissed them off.”

I glanced at Nash, who seemed totally aloof, as usual, as though Koenig was talking about another Ted Nash.

Koenig said, “I was fascinated by your ability to get to the heart of a very complex case that had eluded everyone else.”

“It was standard detective work,” I said modestly, hoping that Mr. Koenig would say, “No, my boy, you’re brilliant.”

But he didn’t say that. He said, “That’s why we hire NYPD detectives. They bring something different to the table.”

“Like donuts,” I suggested.

Mr. Koenig was neither amused nor annoyed. He said, “They bring to the table a degree of common sense, street smarts, and an insight into the criminal mind that is slightly different from that of an FBI or CIA agent. Do you agree?”

“Absolutely.”

“It is an article of faith in the ATTF that the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. Synergy. Right?”

“Right.”

“This is only possible through mutual respect and cooperation.”

“I was just about to say that.”

He regarded me a moment and asked, “Do you want to stay on this case?”

“Yes. I do.”

He leaned toward me and looked in my eyes. He said, “I don’t want to see any grandstanding, I don’t want to hear about any shitty attitudes, and I want complete loyalty from you, Mr. Corey, or so help me God, I’ll have your head stuffed and mounted on my desk. Agreed?”

My goodness. The guy sounded like my ex-bosses. There must be something about me that brings out the nasties in people. Anyway, I mulled over the contract amendment. Could I be a loyal and cooperative team player? No, but I wanted the job. I realized that Mr. Koenig hadn’t demanded that I cease my sarcasm or dull my rapier wit, and I took this as either approval or an oversight on his part. I crossed my fingers and said, “Agreed.”

“Good.” He put out his hand and we shook. He said, “You’re on.”

I was going to say, “You won’t regret it, sir,” but I thought maybe he would, so I just said, “I’ll do my best.”

Koenig took a folder from Roberts and began leafing through it. I regarded Jack Koenig a moment and decided I should not underestimate him. He didn’t get to this corner office because Uncle Sam was his mother’s brother. He got here for all the usual reasons of hard work, long hours, intelligence, training, belief in his mission, good leadership skills, and probably patriotism. But a lot of people in the FBI had the same skills and qualifications.

What distinguished Jack Koenig from other talented men and women was his willingness to accept responsibility for catastrophes that he’d been hired to prevent. What happened this afternoon was bad enough, but somewhere out there was a bad guy—Asad Khalil, and others like him—who wanted to nuke midtown Manhattan, or poison the water supply, or wipe out the population with microorganisms. Jack Koenig knew this, we all knew this. But Koenig was ready to carry this burden and take the final rap if and when it happened. Like today.

Koenig looked at Ted, Kate, and me, then nodded to Roberts, who picked up his pencil. The John Corey job interview and attitude adjustment period was over, and Part Two of the JFK disaster was about to begin.

Koenig said to Kate, “I find it hard to believe that Flight One-Seven-Five was without radio contact for over two hours, and none of you knew about it.”

Kate replied, “Our only contact with the airline was through the gate agent, who knew very little. We’ll have to re-evaluate that procedure.”

“That’s a good idea.” He added, “You should also be in direct contact with Air Traffic Control and Tower Control, and the Port Authority police command center.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If that flight had been hijacked in the air, it could have been in Cuba or Libya before you knew about it.”

“Yes, sir.” She added, “Ted had the foresight to have the name and phone number of the Tower Supervisor.”

Koenig glanced at Nash and said, “Yes. Good thinking. But you should have called him sooner.”

Nash didn’t reply. I had the impression that Nash would say nothing that Mr. Roberts could jot down on his legal pad.

Koenig continued, “It would appear that our February defector was on a dry run to see what our procedures are. I think we all suspected that after he bolted, hence the extra precautions this time.” Koenig added, “If the February defector had been blindfolded, he wouldn’t have seen the Conquistador Club, its location, or ... how to unlock the door. So, maybe we should start blindfolding all non-authorized personnel, including so-called defectors and informants.” He added, “Also, you’ll recall that the February defector was brought in on a Saturday and saw how few people were at the Conquistador Club on a weekend.”

Part Two, it seemed, was a review of policies and procedures, also called Closing the Cage After the Lion Escapes. Mr. Koenig went on in this vein for some time, speaking mostly to Kate, who was filling in for our fearless leader, George Foster.

“All right,” said Mr. Koenig, “the first indication you had that everything was not going as planned was when Ted called the Tower Control Supervisor, a Mr. Stavros.”

Kate nodded. “That’s when John wanted to go out to the aircraft, but Ted, George, and I—”

“I’ve already noted that,” said Mr. Koenig. I sort of wanted to hear it again, but Koenig pushed on and asked Ted Nash a direct and interesting question. He looked at Nash and said, “Did you anticipate a problem with this assignment?”

Nash replied, “No.”

I thought otherwise, despite old Ted’s crap about only the truth is spoken here. CIA types are so into deceit, deception, double and triple crosses, paranoia, and bullshit, that you never knew what they knew, when they knew it, and what they were making up. This doesn’t make them bad guys, and in fact you have to admire their world-class bullshit. I mean, a CIA guy would lie to a priest in a confessional. But admiration aside, it’s not easy to work with them if you’re not one of them.