The Lion's Game (25 page)

In any case, Jack Koenig had asked the question and thereby raised the issue, but he let it go and said to me, “By the way, while I admire your initiative, when you got in that Port Authority car and crossed the runways, you lied to your superiors and broke every rule in the book. I’ll let this pass, but don’t let it happen again.”

I was a little pissed off now and I said, “If we’d acted about ten minutes sooner, maybe Khalil would be in custody right now, charged with murder. If you’d instructed Hundry and Gorman to call and report on their cell phones or the airphone, we’d have known there was a problem when we didn’t hear from them. If we’d been in direct contact with Air Traffic Control, we’d have been told the aircraft was out of radio contact for hours. If you hadn’t welcomed this February bozo with open arms, what happened today wouldn’t have happened.” I stood and announced, “Unless you need me for something important, I’m going home.”

When I used to pull this stunt with my bosses, someone would say, “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.” But Mr. Koenig said softly, “We need you for something important. Please sit down.”

Okay, so I sat. If I was back at Homicide North, this is when one of the bosses opens his desk and passes around the seltzer bottle of vodka to cool everyone down. But I didn’t expect any rule-bending here in a place where they hung warning posters in the corridors about drinking, smoking, sexual harassment, and thought crimes.

Anyway, we all sat there a moment, engaged, I guess, in Zen meditation, calming our nerves without nasty alcohol.

Mr. Koenig went on with his agenda and asked me, “You called George Foster on Kate’s mobile phone and instructed him to put out a citywide.”

“That’s right.”

He went through the sequence and content of my cell phone calls to George Foster, then said, “So you went back to the dome, and saw that Phil’s and Peter’s thumbs had been severed. You understood what that meant.”

“What else could it mean?”

“Right. I congratulate you on an incredible piece of deductive reasoning ... I mean ... to go back and look for ... their thumbs.” He looked at me and asked, “How did you come to that thought, Mr. Corey?”

“I really don’t know. Sometimes things pop into my head.”

“Really? Do you usually act on things that pop into your head?”

“Well, if they’re weird enough. You know, like severed thumbs. You have to go with that.”

“I see. And you called the Conquistador Club, and Nancy Tate didn’t answer.”

I said, “I think we’ve been through this.”

Koenig ignored this and said, “She was, in fact, dead by that time.”

“Yes. That’s why she didn’t answer.”

“And Nick Monti was also dead by that time.”

“He was probably in the process of dying at that time. It takes a while with chest wounds.”

Out of nowhere, Koenig asked me, “Where did you get wounded?”

“On West One Hundred and Second Street.”

“I mean,
where?”

I knew what he meant, but I don’t like to discuss anatomy in mixed company. I replied, “There wasn’t much brain damage.”

He looked doubtful, but dropped that subject and looked at Ted. “Do you have anything to add?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Do you think that John and Kate missed any opportunities?”

Ted Nash considered this loaded question and replied, “I think we all underestimated Asad Khalil.”

Koenig nodded. “I think we did. But we won’t do that again.”

Nash added, “We all have to stop thinking of these people as idiots. That will get us into a lot of trouble.”

Koenig didn’t reply.

Nash continued, “If I may say so, there is an attitudinal problem in the FBI and the NYPD Intelligence Unit regarding Islamic extremists. Part of this problem stems from racial attitudes. The Arabs and other ethnic groups in the Islamic world are not stupid or cowardly. Their armies or air forces may not impress us, but Mideastern terrorist organizations have scored some major hits around the world, in Israel and America. I’ve worked with Mossad, and they have a healthier respect for Islamic terrorists than we do. These extremists may not all be top-notch, but even bunglers can score once in a while. And sometimes you get an Asad Khalil.”

Needless to say, King Jack did not enjoy the lecture, but he appreciated its message. And that made Jack Koenig brighter than the average boss. I, too, was hearing what Nash was saying, and so did Kate. The CIA, despite my bad attitude toward its representative, had many strengths. One of its strengths was supposed to be in the area of enemy capability assessment, but they tended to overestimate the enemy, which was good for the CIA budget. I mean, the first inkling they had of the collapse of the Soviet Union was from the newspapers.

On the other hand, there was some truth in what Ted Nash was saying. It’s never a good idea to think of people who look, talk, and act differently from you as clowns. Especially when they want to kill you.

Jack Koenig said to Nash, “I think everyone’s attitudes are changing, but I agree with you that we still have some problems in that area. After today, we’ll see some improvement in how we perceive our opponents.”

Now that Mr. Nash had made his philosophical point, he returned to the specific subject and said, “It’s my belief, as Kate told you earlier, that Khalil has left the country. Khalil is headed now to a Mideastern country on a Mideastern carrier. He will eventually wind up in Libya again where he’ll be debriefed and honored. We may never see him again, or we may see his handiwork a year from now. In the meantime, this is a matter best handled through international diplomacy and by international intelligence agencies.”

Koenig looked at Nash awhile. I had the distinct impression they were not fond of each other. Koenig said, “But you don’t mind, Ted, if we continue to pursue leads here?”

“Of course not.”

My, my. The fangs were bared for a brief moment. I thought we were a team.

Mr. Koenig suggested to Mr. Nash, “Since you have firsthand knowledge of this case, why don’t you request a reassignment back to your agency? You would be invaluable to them on this case. Perhaps an overseas assignment.”

Nash got the drift and replied, “If you feel you can spare me here, I’d like to go to Langley tonight or tomorrow and discuss that idea with them. I think it’s a good idea.”

“So do I,” said Jack Koenig.

It looked to me as though Ted Nash was about to disappear from my life, which made me very happy. On the other hand, I might miss old Ted. Then again, maybe I wouldn’t. People like Nash who disappear have a habit of reappearing when you least expect or want them to.

The polite but pissy exchange between Ted Nash and Jack Koenig seemed to be finished.

I mentally lit a cigar, drank some Scotch, and told a dirty joke to myself while Kate and Jack chatted. How do these people function without alcohol? How can they talk without swearing? But Koenig did let a few profanities slip out now and then. There was hope for him. In fact, Jack Koenig might have made a good cop, which is about the highest praise I can offer.

There was a knock on the door and it opened. A young man stood in the doorway and said, “Mr. Koenig. There’s a call for you that you may want to take out here.”

Koenig stood, excused himself, and walked to the door. I noticed that the outer area, which had been empty and dark when we arrived, was now all lit up, and I saw men and women at their desks or walking around. A police station is never dark, quiet, or empty, but the Feds try to keep normal work hours, trusting in a few duty officers and beepers to turn out the troops when the poopy hits the paddles.

Anyway, Jack disappeared, and I turned to Hal Roberts and suggested, “Why don’t you find us some coffee?”

Mr. Roberts did not like being sent for coffee, but Kate and Ted seconded my suggestion, and Roberts got up and left.

I regarded Kate a moment. Despite the day’s events, she looked as fresh and alert as if it were 9:00 A.M. instead of 9:00 P.M. I myself felt my ass dragging. I’m about ten years older than Ms. Mayfield, and I haven’t fully recovered from my near-death experience, so that might explain the difference in our energy levels. But it didn’t explain why her clothes and hair were so neat and why she smelled good. I felt, and probably looked, crumpled, and I needed a shower about now.

Nash looked dapper and awake, but that’s the way mannequins always looked. Also, he hadn’t done anything physical today. Certainly he hadn’t had a wild ride around the airport or climbed through an aircraft full of corpses.

But back to Kate. She had her legs crossed, and I noticed for the first time what good legs they were. Actually, I may have noticed this about a month ago in the first nanosecond after meeting her, but I’m trying to modify my NYPD piggishness. I have not hit on one single—or married—female in the ATTF. I was actually getting a reputation as a man who was either devoted to duty, or was devoted to some off-scene girlfriend, or was gay, or who had a low libido, or who perhaps had been hit below the belt by one of those bullets.

In any case, a whole new world was opening up to me now. Women in the office talked to me about their boyfriends and husbands, asked me if I liked their new hairstyles, and generally treated me in a gender-neutral manner. The girls haven’t yet asked me to go shopping with them or shared recipes with me, but maybe I’ll be invited to a baby shower. The old John Corey is dead, buried under a ton of politically correct memos from Washington. John Corey, NYPD Homicide, is history. Special Contract Agent John Corey, ATTF, has emerged. I feel clean, baptized in Potomac holy water, reborn and accepted into the ranks of the pure angelic hosts with whom I work.

But back to Kate. Her skirt had ridden above her knees, and I was treated to this incredible left thigh. I realized she was looking at me, and I tore my eyes away from her legs and looked at her face. Her lips were fuller than I’d thought, pouty and expressive. Those ice blue eyes were looking deep into my soul.

Kate said to me, “You do look like you need coffee.”

I cleared my throat and my mind and replied, “I actually need a drink.”

She said, “I’ll buy you one later.”

I glanced at my watch and said, “I’m usually in bed by ten.”

She smiled, but didn’t reply. My heart was pounding.

Meanwhile, Nash was being Nash, totally unconnected, as inscrutable as a Tibetan monk on quaaludes. It occurred to me again that maybe the guy was not aloof. Maybe he was stupid. Maybe he had the IQ of a toaster oven, but he was bright enough not to let on.

Mr. Roberts returned with a tray on which was a carafe and four coffee mugs. He set this down on the table without comment and didn’t even offer to pour. I took the carafe and poured three mugs of hot coffee. Kate, Ted, and I each took a mug and sipped.

We all stood and went to the windows, each of us lost in our own thoughts as we stared out into the city.

I looked east, out toward Long Island. There was a nice cottage out there, about ninety miles and a world away from here, and in the cottage was Beth Penrose, sitting in front of a fire, sipping tea or maybe brandy. It wasn’t a good idea to dwell on those kinds of things, but I remembered what my ex-wife once said to me, “A man like you, John, does only what he wants to do. You want to be a cop, so don’t complain about the job. When you’re ready, you’ll give it up. But you’re not ready.”

Indeed not. But at times like this, the idiot students at John Jay were looking good.

I glanced at Kate and saw she was looking at me. I smiled. She smiled. We both turned back to our views.

For most of my professional life, I had done work that was considered important. Everyone in this room knew that special feeling. But it took its toll on the mind and on the spirit, and sometimes, as in my case, on the body.

Yet, something kept pushing me on. My ex had concluded, “You’ll never die of boredom, John, but you will die on this job. Half of you is dead already.”

Not true. Simply not true. What was true was that I was addicted to the adrenaline rush.

Also, I actually felt good about protecting society. That’s not something you’d say in the squad room, but it was a fact and a factor.

Maybe after this case was over, I’d think about all this. Maybe it was time to put down the gun and the shield and get out of harm’s way, time to make my exit.

Asad Khalil continued on through a residential neighborhood. The Mercury Marquis was big, bigger than anything he’d ever driven, but it handled well enough.

Khalil did not go to the toll highway called the New Jersey Turnpike. He had no intention of going through any toll booths. As he had requested in Tripoli, the rented automobile had a global positioning system, which he’d used in Europe. This one was called a Satellite Navigator, and it was slightly different from the ones he was used to, but it had the entire U.S. roadway system in its database, and as he drove slowly through the streets, he accessed the directions to Highway 1.

Within a few minutes he was on the highway heading south. This was a busy road, he noticed, with many commercial establishments on either side.

He noticed that some automobiles coming toward him had their headlights on, so he put on his headlights.

After a mile or so, he dropped Jabbar’s keys out the window, then removed Jabbar’s cash from his wallet, counting eighty-seven dollars. He went through Jabbar’s wallet as he drove, ripping up what could be ripped and dropping small pieces out the window. The credit cards and plasticized driving license presented a problem, but Khalil managed to bend and break them all, and let them fall out the window. The wallet now contained nothing except a color photograph of the Jabbar family—Gamal Jabbar, a wife, two sons, a daughter, and an elderly woman. Khalil regarded the photograph as he drove. He had been able to retrieve a few photographs from the ruins of his home in Al Azziziyah, including a few photographs of his father in uniform. These images were precious to him, and there would be no further photographs of the family of Khalil.